


Plummet

by IntrovertApocalypse



Category: jacksepticeye, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Depressed!Jack, Depression, Hopefully some fluff, Jack Needs a Hug, Jack dreams a lot, M/M, Self Harm, Smut, Suicide Attempt, confusing feelings, mentioned self harm, sort of sexual abuse???
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2018-09-02 08:55:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 24,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8660638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntrovertApocalypse/pseuds/IntrovertApocalypse
Summary: Jack didn’t have someone to help him through depression. He forced his way out of it. At least that’s what he thought. That’s what he hoped.Jack has been feeling off lately, but he won't let anyone know that. At least at first. Once Mark realises what Jack has been going through it's up to him to convince jack that his presence makes a difference to the world. And Jack has to decide if the voice in the back of his head is worth leaving his friends, fans, and career behind.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first fic on Archiveofourown, and the first time I've released my writing to the public, so please don't judge me too hard. P.S. I know my grammar is terrible. P.P.S. I'm Australian, so I might spell things differently (realise, colour etc.)

“I’m so happy that you’re not afraid to be who you are. Because that’s one of the most important things a person has to overcome” --- Sean McLoughlin 2015

 

No matter how hard he tries, Jack just can’t pinpoint what changed. I mean, something must have. There has to be an answer for this. Some switch that he flicked when he wasn’t concentrating. Because a few months ago...it just...it wasn’t _like this_. Not the same, but not vastly different.

Jack would get up every day, have coffee, get his camera set up, record, edit, eat, rinse and repeat. And it’s not that that’s stopped. Just that he’s become much more...aware of it.

Jack’s alarm woke him, which was odd, because from the way he felt, it was almost like he had only been asleep ten minutes.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

Ugh.

To be honest, Jack probably could have ignored it. Not turned it off, seeing as he had put his phone on top of his wardrobe to ensure he would get up in the mornings. But he could have ignored it, just lay there for a minute more, staring at nothing in particular. He couldn’t tell if what he felt was relaxation, or overwhelming boredom. _Christ_ that alarm is loud.

Time to face the day.

Life is a well oiled machine for Jack. He knows how each one will begin, how each one will end. Organisation had never been his greatest skill, but hey. Here he is.

Step 1. Coffee. Nothing before coffee. That same coffee, in that same mug, from that same machine. It’s getting kind of old. The cycle, and the machine. He should probably buy a new one, but who knows when that will happen? Shopping trips weren’t really accounted for in his schedule.

Step 2. Breakfast. Unfortunately, his non-existent shopping trips had made it difficult in the food department. What are his choices today? A todler’s handful of cereal, some...questionable milk, and bread in much the same state. Fuck it, last night’s leftovers it is. He’s an adult, god damn it. Who says he can’t have pizza for breakfast?

Step 3. ~~Shower~~. No time for that. Not now he’s wasted so much time fucking around. It’s already too late. Jack curses at himself. He can’t just take his time sipping at coffee. He has things to do. Even if those things are as ridiculous as filming himself playing video games. Besides, hot water makes the colour in his hair fade even more than it already has, and he really doesn’t want to get it re-dyed right now.

Step 3. Record. Today’s videos were okay. For some reason recording has become such a chore. God, that’s selfish right? Anyone in their right mind would jump at the oppertunity to play games as a job, and he used to, too. So why is smiling on camera so hard now? Never mind that. Jack already had videos set to upload during the day, so after filming he could easily do whatever he wanted to, as long as he got those edited by that night.

“...so thank you guys, and I’ll see you dudes...In the next video!”

Jack switched his camera off. Some tension left his shoulders. At least that’s over and done with. Now he can relax. The only thought in Jack’s mind was his bed. Sleep. But he hated letting a day go by and feel like he hadn’t done anything, even if it won’t matter in the long run. He could actually _do_ something. Go outside or talk to a friend or anything productive, but then again, not doing those things takes a lot less energy. Jack settled for answering some comments from fans. While flicking through tumblr messages he got a few from people thanking him for what he’s done for them. There was this one that said he helped them through depression. Jack should have expected depression would come up, it is tumblr after all. But this one kept him fixated.

Something that not many people know about Jack is that he was once almost diagnosed with depression. How does one _almost_ get diagnosed with something, you ask? Well, I’ll tell you.

Jack was always happy, he remembers that. And it’s hard to forget something that has just seemed to cling to you your whole life. But there was some time, maybe during his teenage years, when he was just getting used to the hormones, when he just went numb. No, maybe that’s the wrong way to put it. He felt stuff, but everyhthing he felt, or did, or said just felt meaningless. Because it will all start again eventually, just another cycle of the same shit over and over and over again.

He was actually surprisingly quiet in school. Looking at him now you’d never think he used to be the weird kid in the back of the class, but he was. He didn’t find school hard, really. He just had trouble concentrating, and all he wanted to do was to be able to concentrate, because concentrating means he doesn’t have to get lost in his head all the time.

His sister made him see the school psychologist when she found out about him cutting. Jack didn’t undertand why she thought it was so important. He insisted he didn’t need to do it, that he could stop. But she was persistant, and more importantly, she promised she wouldn’t tell anyone if he talked to someone.

When you start seeing these people, they always make sure you know everything is confidential. Like you automatically expect them to blab to their friends about you over coffee. But the thing with this whole ‘confidential’ thing is they have to tell your parents if they think you’re going to do something...bad. Or really, if they’re worried about your safety at all. That’s when they’ll break confidentiality. Jack didn’t know how worried people were for him. His sister sure couldn’t stop coddling him now, but he had never voiced any of this out loud, so he didn’t know how worried anyone could be about anything he said. So he got better. Just like that. He refused to let it show, started smiling even wider than before. He forced himself to speak up. He forced himself to eat properly. He forced himself to let the cuts, then scars fade away. he forced himself to deal with it privately. Just to make sure it was as confidential as it could possibly be. He didn’t have someone to help him through depression. He forced his way out of it. At least that’s what he thought. That’s what he hoped. Those thoughts were meant to have left him as a teenager. They can’t come back now. He has everything he should want in life. Good friends, a colossal library of games. Jack smiled. When he was younger, games felt like the only things that kept him happy, and now even those don’t feel right. Selfish prick.

But then again, not staying awake at all takes a lot less energy, too. Sleep is better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed. This first chapter was just a sort of test to get some of my stuff out somewhere apart from deeply hidden files on my computer. I have plans for this, and I know how I want it to end, so expect more at some point or another. I have no idea how long this will be, as I tend to ramble while trying to get my point across (see: these notes). Thanks for reading.
> 
> P.S. I actually have no idea if that first quote was said by Jack...it said it was a jacksepticeye quote online, but I have the memory of a goldfish, so even if I had heard him say it I'd probably forget.


	2. Chapter 2

The most surprising thing about the whole situation, Jack finds, is how easy it is to convince people you’re A-OK. Because he’s never been a very good actor, but for some reason concealing his pain came easy to him. Maybe it was just because of how high the stakes were, not just when he was a kid, but now.

Jack checked how yesterday’s videos were doing. Same as usual.

Thirteen million.

Thirteen fucking million people thought he was worth subscribing to. It’s incredible. Though, maybe they wouldn’t feel the same if he wasn’t bouncing with joy in every video. But yesterday’s videos were doing just as he expected...the same as always. Huh. He remembers what a pain it was to film that day, how hard he had to push himself to just get out of bed...but still, nobody saw it.

In some ways, he wished they did. In some ways, he wished he could be completely honest with them, and tell them when he’s feeling something other than ecstasy, and spill everything, and fucking cry. You know those days when you just need a good cry? Still, if he did that, who knows what would happen? Why push his problems onto other people that might be going through something worse? It’s not fair on them. That’s why he tries to be as happy as possible in his videos, to spread the happy energy. Of course, didn’t even know if that worked for years, seeing as he didn’t have anyone in person to test it on. And now that he does, that happiness doesn’t even come naturally anymore.

And he’s still alone.

Well, he’s not. He knows he’s not. Didn’t he say he had great friends? Jesus, his idol is one of his closest friends. Mark was...a surprise for sure. Felix was, too. Why would these huge YouTube celebrities care about him? But they did. And now he’s got _thirteen fucking million_ people calling themselves his fans. Does he even have a right to be lonely? Should those numbers, and friends on the other side of the world give him the comfort he needs to make it through every day? Should words on a screen keep him feeling appreciated?

No matter what those answers may be, Jack knows one thing. They don’t.

Jack leaned back on his computer chair. In some - no - _a lot_ of ways, he wished it would just swallow him up. Drag him kicking and screaming into the empty abyss he’s been teetering on, and replace him with something better. With what other people see, with the happy go lucky guy from his videos. He wished he could live a day as ‘jacksepticeye’ instead of Sean McLoughlin.

His computer chimed. Fuck, he should have left Skype off. He’s lonely, but talking though a camera to ‘Markimoo’ didn’t feel like the answer.

Mark’s face smiled to him. His profile picture was about as serious as you’d expect. The derpy look about it actually tugged the corners of Jack’s mouth up. So it does work? Cool.

Jack braced himself, exhaled, and plastered a smile on his face.

“Hey Jack”

Mark’s smile was as bright as always.

“Hey”

Jack didn’t realise how sore his voice actually was, seeing as usually the only speaking he does is screaming into his microphone. He wasn’t always used to talking normally.

“What’s up?”

Jack’s voice cracked, which seemed to amuse Mark.

“You going through puberty there, Jackaboy?” he laughed.

Jack choked out a giggle. He could almost feel the rest of his body not cooperating with it. Every part of him was fighting against the smile he insisted on wearing. Why couldn’t he have come up with an easier character to play than the giddy doofus? Either way, his drama skills might be better than he thought, since Mark just keeps laughing.

“Shut up” Jack’s voice came out begging. No, how does he usually do it? Happy and energetic, right? Let’s just stick to the plan.

“I just wanted to talk to you, you’ve been pretty quiet online. Which is ironic on many levels”

Jack smiled wide at Mark’s joke. He knows ‘jacksepticeye’. Loud and wild. How about just Jack?

Jack swallowed the lump in his throat. Mark had stopped laughing, and he became suddenly aware that he hadn’t replied to Mark. Okay, he can do this...excuses, excuses...or he could just say he’s been sleeping a lot, or that he’s been busy. That’s believable. Fuck, he’s taking too long to respond. Mark should just hang up. Jack’s not worth his time.

“Yeah...I guess I’ve just been busy?”

Why a question? Does he want Mark to see through him? Does he want anyone? Sure, in some ways he does, but in others he’d rather lock himself up in a room alone until he’s sorted himself out.

Mark raises an eyebrow. Jack’s stomach drops.

“Are you okay?”

  
He asks it calm and cool, but with sincere care behind it. He asks it like he’ll be able to say that everything is fine, and like he’s confident that he’ll be able to fix whatever problem is thrown to him. He asks it like he expects Jack to say no, like everything can’t switch back to normal in .2 seconds. But Jack _is_ okay. He is. He’s just feeling sorry for himself.

“Yeah, I’m fine”

_Please, please just let it go_ Jack pleads. He’s okay! Why can’t Mark see that? Why does everyone else see it and not him?

Mark doesn’t answer, just keeps looking at Jack, studying him. His eyebrows knot together, and Jack finds it surprisingly hard keeping his tears back. _Don’t cry, jackass_. Come on, he’s fine.

“Jack...”

Jack blinks away the tears he feels filling his eyes more and more every second. He’s certain his voice would crack now, if he was actually saying anything.

What’s weirder, two guys staring at each other through shitty laptop cameras silently, or one of them crying?

“...what’s wrong?”

Jack smiles. That morbid smile when you’re about to bawl, you know? He shakes his head. Takes a jittery breath in.

“I‘m fine, Mark”

Half of his words are muffled by just trying to hold the sobs back. The lump in his throat is getting painful.

“No you’re not. What’s going on?”

Mark’s voice sounded comforting, and had he not been using so much energy getting his body to cooperate, Jack could have told him everything. Mark had that aura to him, like you knew you could say anything to him and he’d never reveal it to anybody. The last time Jack had come close to talking to someone about how he felt was when he was in high school, and even that was because of someone finding out accidentally. He wasn’t about to spill his life story to Mark just because he sounded like he cared. For fucks sake. The guy has his own problems to deal with.

“I’m fine, Mark. Just needed a cry” Jack covers his face with his hands.

“If you want to talk, I’m here”

Jack laughs. His stomach twists.

“No you’re not”

Jack couldn’t see Mark’s reaction, only the sweet darkness behind his palms.

“I’m always here if you need me, Jack” Mark’s voice almost sounded pleading

“Talk to me” Yep. Definitely pleading. He’s such a dick. He could have done anything. Anything but _cry_.

“There’s nothin’ to talk about”

Mark sighed.

“I wish I could be there with you”

Mark said it to comfort him. Just to let him know that he ‘wishes he could do more’. It’s rule one in the basic comfort gestures book. He didn’t mean it sincerely. But Jack and his clingy ass,

“Me too”

of course he did.

Jack caught a glimpse of Mark between his fingers, through his messy excuse for hair. He looked heartbroken. Like he just saw Chica get hit by a semi truck. That’s what he was, an injured dog, begging for attention. Mark’s eyes were watering, and soon he was resting his head in his hands as well.

“...Jack... _fuck_. I-I wish it was easier, you know? With you in Ireland...you’re so far away from all of us...it’s bad we can’t just hang out easily”

Jack sniffed

“Don’t I know it”

Mark sighed.

“Let’s just talk, okay? If I can’t be there for you in person, I’ll be the best damn computer friend I can be"

He put that bright smile back on, just for Jack. He was trying too hard for him, honestly, Mark probably only wanted to catch up for two minutes, now he’s got a hurt puppy to deal with.

Jack sniffed again, he pushed the hair from his face and looked Mark in the eyes.

“Honestly, Mark, I don’t know why I’m cryin’. I’m okay, just a bit lonely, that’ll go away”

Jack looked like shit, from what he could tell from his camera. Mark sighed.

“Okay, but I still wanna talk to you.” Mark straightened up. “See your sexy face some more" He took a surprisingly loud sip from his warfstache mug. He winked at Jack over the disgusting bubbly sound. Jack giggled. It felt like the first time he’s genuinely laughed in a while, and it was over a septiplier reference. Wow.

“Okay. What’s up?” Jack still had trouble keeping his voice from wavering, but seemed all good apart from that. He could fix this.

The talked for over half an hour, about nothing in particular. Games, and movies, and every stupid joke in between. It was close to pleasant. Conversations switched soon enough to PAX West. They had a panel this year. He, Bob and Wade would join Mark on stage for ‘Markiplier And Friends’. It was something fun to look forward to, Jack guessed. He hoped he wouldn’t be quite as nervous as he was at PAX East last month.

“You excited?” Geez Mark, read minds much?

“Yeah, It’ll be good. Just nervous”

“Don’t be” Mark waved a hand at Jack “People love us because we act dumb. There’s not much left we can do to embarrass ourselves”

“You’re always embarrassing”

Mark slapped a hand over his heart, and gasped loudly

“That cut me deep, Jack! How could you?”

Jack laughed

“Whatever”

Mark tapped at his mouse pad. It looked like he was fiddling with different things on his screen, checking tabs and moving things around. Nobody puts Jackaboy in the corner.

“Oh shit...Jack, I gotta go” Mark looked into his camera once again “I’ll talk to you later”

“Sure...” Jack didn’t expect the disappointment he felt. He knew they’d have to stop talking eventually, and he would go back into his routine, back to not talking, back to being alone. It’s fine.

“...see you later”

“Bye”

Mark smiled once more before ending the call. Jack sat looking at the empty screen for a few moments. Would it be creepy to start recording Skype calls? It would just be for himself, so he didn’t necessarily have to say goodbye yet. _Or you could just watch his videos like a normal human being_ Jack thought, but this was different. This wasn’t a lets play or skit, this was Mark. Someone to talk to. Someone talking to him. Okay, don’t be a creep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG so much response in so little time! Thank you so much, everyone that left a kudos, comment, or even bothered to click on this. It means the world to me.
> 
> So this chapter's a little sloppy. I was sort of trying to get everything I wanted to happen in there, but I feel like if I ramble too long it's not interesting (even though most of the story is supposed to have Jack feel like days drag on and on and don't amount to much) and that's not good for a story. I also tend to struggle with the ratio of dialogue to basic story telling, because I either ram line after line of dialogue into a scene, or put paragraphs of information between lines that are supposed to be said two seconds apart. Oops.
> 
> I also tried to set the time this takes place in in this chapter. I set it about a month after PAX East (April 2016) and then I will have a few months time to let Jack's character to develop before the Markiplier and Friends PAX West panel (I think it was in September?) but I doubt time is going to be a big part of this story line, so feel free to ignore it.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. UPDATE INFO (NOT NEW CHAPTER)

Hi guys.

First of all, thank you to all of those who have left kudos on this fic. It means so much to me, you have no idea.

Secondly, I'm sorry I haven't added a new chapter in a while. TBH I don't even know how long it's been (stress has sort of destroyed my perception of time. I have trouble sometimes even remembering what day it is/what happened yesterday etc.). Anyway, I just wanted to let you guys know that I am still working on this fic. I have 30+ pages of writing done already for future chapters, but I am really struggling with the next one. I was really upset with how my last chapter turned out and I'm just trying to make my next one worth reading. I'm struggling with Mark's POV. I didn't want everything to be Jack's POV because I wanted an easy way to pass time in the story (and I have a later chapter written in Mark's POV and it would be kinda weird to just switch to him for one chapter). I am trying my best, but if the next chapter turns out terrible please forgive me. I may just publish a bad chapter so I can move onto the stuff I have real inspiration for.

And lastly I just thought I'd say I have a bunch more WIP fanfics/ideas that I may start to work on and publish here. The ones which I a more confident in are YouTuber AUs, so if you're interested in my future writing check out my profile in the next month or so. I have things like an Until Dawn-like AU and some more septiplier with some darker tones (sort of darkiplier) if that's what you're in to.

Once again, thank you all so much for your support! I'll try to get my next chapter up, as soon as I can break out of this funk I should be able to get a few more chapters past that done.

\- T


	4. Chapter 4

“Oh shit...Jack, I gotta go” Mark flicked back to Skype “I’ll talk to you later”  
Jack’s grin faltered a little, but kept smiling none the less  
“Sure...see you later”  
“Bye”  
Mark hit ‘end call’. That was weird. Jack wasn’t one to be upset over seemingly nothing. Although, Mark thinks, anyone would get lonely if they lived like he did. Jack was a socialiser, he loved talking and meeting new people and going out with friends, which is why Mark found it so strange that he lives by himself with no close friends around.

Well, it’s not like Jack can just up and move house, move state, move country. That’s not a split second decision, and he’s got his reasons for staying in Ireland. What is Mark even thinking? Like he’d be instructing Jack to move. He doesn’t even know Jack’s side of the story. He’s over-reacting, he’s sure it must be nothing.

Mark’s screen flashed once more. 

He had been hard at work lately, planning and writing sketches for his channel. It was a nice change from constant gaming videos, but damn was it a lot of work for five minute videos.

Multiple errors flashed on Marks computer, one from his editing software, one from YouTube, where he was currently attempting to upload one of his newest videos.

No biggie. His videos can be a little late today. Just as long as the error didn’t mess with his-

Seriously?

Mark’s editing software had apparently decided to act up again, taking his unsaved work with it. He was always terrible at regularly saving...well, anything he was working on, really. All those teachers at his schools telling the students to remember to hit ‘save’ every once in a while would be disappointed.

“Damn it”

Mark closed the non responsive program, cursing to himself as he did so, then refreshed his YouTube page. He re-selected one of his videos, and set it to upload. 

With a final, exasperated sigh, he posted a quick update to his followers on twitter,

‘Hey guys, sorry today’s videos might be a little late. Some things got in the way of my editing, and I’m having trouble posting at the moment. Stay tuned!’

He had planned to get together with Bob and Wade that day, but depending on how much editing actually got compromised, he might have to cancel those plans.

Jack’s text came in not five minutes after he posted his update. 

‘hey sorry if I kept you from editing. I didn’t mean to keep you that long’

Mark thought back to the way Jack was acting in their Skype call. Although it was hard to focus on anything other than the obvious elephant in the room; Jack had cried. Mark had seen him cry before, mostly in videos, when a game really got to him. But this time was different, and not only because it was in real time (‘in real life’ felt like a stretch, since there was such a huge barrier between them). It looked like nothing brought it on this time, to Mark at least. Although, Jack had started crying almost straight away in their call, so maybe something happened before the call to get him worked up like that. 

_‘I’m fine, Mark. Just needed a cry’_

Mark supposes that is a good enough excuse. There have been days when he’s felt like he just needed a good cry to sort his emotions out, almost like it would give him a clean slate to work with. But either way, even if Jack hadn’t been in that state, Mark shouldn’t let Jack blame himself for Mark’s mistake.

Mark replied;

‘Don’t be sorry. It wasn’t your fault, I just forgot to save the video I was working on. It had nothing to do with you’

He hit send, then waited a moment,

‘:)’

He sent a smiley face too, just in case Jack needed proof that he wasn’t upset. He hoped that would be enough, their call kept weighing in on the back of his mind.

Only a couple of hours later and Mark’s channel had two new videos up. A day well spent.

Mark considers calling Jack again, to see how he’s doing, but it was already almost dark outside Jack’s windows when he called last time, and with the time zone difference he’s probably asleep by now, so he decides against it. 

Instead, he calls Ryan in, asks him if he’s busy. They’ve been brainstorming video ideas for a while now, although only the best (or usually the stupidest) ideas actually get made. Some days they could spend hours into the night just coming up with ideas and scripting them. Mark was glad that the fans seemed to like them too, skits were what he used to do and he forgot how much he actually enjoyed making them.

They write in notepads, and plan the most outrageous ideas, like outside dance parties and blow up turkey suits, just so they can only get more ridiculous.

“-so we’ll do that one around Christmas time, right?”

Ryan asked

“Yeah, I mean, we might come up with something better by then, hopefully something less stupid”

“Well that won’t happen”

Mark laughed

Mark ended up staying up far too late that night. If you asked him in the morning what he was wasting his time on, he couldn’t even remember enough to tell you with how tired he was. Energy was buzzing through his veins. He couldn’t get his mind to focus on one thing in particular, every thought felt like it held an opportunity with it.

He felt like things were looking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is...the worst, and shortest thing I've ever written. Thankfully I've had the next chapter ready for a while, so maybe I can bring this story up from rock bottom.


	5. Chapter 5

Jack’s psychologist once told him that all of the best people in the world come with their flaws.

_‘Mistakes are what makes up people, Sean. Without mistakes we would have no experience. It’s what makes us human’,_

he said. Another time he said that nobody is perfect, and another time he said that everyone is amazing in their own ways.

_‘You have to embrace what you are, Sean. There’s no way to change who you are’,_

_‘Every person you look up to has these insecurities. Every person you see in school, walking home...everybody finds something they don’t like about themselves. You need to learn to embrace that thing’,_

_‘Nobody sees you the way you see yourself, Sean’._

...Jack thinks that over time he’s changed his psychologist’s voice so much in his head that he can’t even remember what it started as. He was just so sick of hearing it, even after just the few sessions he actually went to.

_‘Embrace your flaws’, ‘celebrate your weakness’_ , it’s all bullshit.

Who in their right mind would _want_ to parade the very thing they hate about themselves around like it was a gift to the earth? It might work for some people, but Jack could never understand it. Through the years he might have come to terms with some of his childhood insecurities, but he’s not happy with himself, and he’s damn sure not one of the best people in the world. So there’s really no reason in trying. If he wasn’t going to try to be one of these people, spewing nonsense about embracing your flaws in under a minute then sure, he might sort himself out a little further, but until that time comes...who cares?

Jack had tried to take the advice, sure, but the more he thought about his flaws, the worse it was. Every time he searched and examined his flaws he ended up finding more. Anyway, he supposes he was happy with who he was, with where he was going and all that jazz for a while now, but then what? He’s here. He’s got friends and fans and borderline fame, and it doesn’t feel like there’s anywhere to go from here, and he doesn’t feel like trying.

_Okay, Jack. Try to lighten it up a little, would you?_

Okay. Okay. Let’s get things done today.

Step 1. Coffee

Step 2. ~~Breakfast~~ Missed breakfast. Eat later.

Step 2. ~~Shower~~

Step 2. Record

Step 3. ~~Eat~~ Edit

Step 4. ~~Clean room~~ Nap

Step 5. ~~Eat~~ ~~Clean room~~ ~~Shower~~ ~~Go outside~~ Sleep

Four months until PAX. This better go away by then.

The funny thing was, Jack wasn’t even sure where all of his exhaustion came from. Clearly he isn’t using up a lot of energy, which he usually has in excess anyway. And it’s not like any other feeling of being tired that he’s experienced before. He isn’t spending every minute of every day fighting back yawns or straining his eyes open...there’s just this...feeling. It sucks away at all of his energy and motivation, and before he knows it, even cleaning the dishes feels like too much effort. And it tells him that he’s tired, even when he shouldn’t be, and suddenly lying still, staring at the ceiling for hours doesn’t bore him as much as it used to.

Maybe he’s just growing up. God knows he never truly grew out of his childish phase, and that was fun. Not having a care in the world sort of fun. Could 26 be the age that he realises it’s time to grow out of that? Jack doesn’t want to leave that behind. That’s who he is. Sure, maybe he puts on a bit of a mask for his subscribers, but it’s not all lies. It can’t be.

Jack pushes himself harder the next week than he has had to push himself for a while. Forcing himself back into a livable life style. He had to at some point, especially since the only things left in his kitchen were bags of flour and sugar. Mundane tasks like doing his laundry, or cleaning benches after eating were the hardest things to do. They were boring as hell anyway, and now for some reason turning on a washing machine seemed borderline impossible.

He kept it up as best he could, but there were only so many hours in the day. That week was probably where it ended, because after making it a week he felt accomplished. He still didn’t quite know why he was celebrating himself for the art of not being lazy, but he was, and after the week of pushing himself he let himself have a day off as reward. Then that reward turned into a break, and that break back into practically where he started off. Dishes filled the sink, his old clothes almost made a carpet for the bathroom floor, he was eating junk food shit, and if anyone knew how many days in a row he had skipped showers, well...they might have already been able to tell. He wasn’t exactly making himself look presentable. He would for videos at least, brush his hair back, wash his face from the grease that it had gathered, he’d even shave some days. The mess had gotten past acceptable, Jack knew that. If he showed it on camera, it wouldn’t be #Relatable, more like #QuickCallPestControlISawSomethingMovingInYourGiantPileOfDirtyLaundry.

Another week, end of the month, three months until PAX...and he’s not even sure if he wants to go. _Shut up. You’re going. You’re excited._ Yeah. He’s excited, damn it. He _is_. He’ll drag himself there even if it kills him.

11:57 PM

Jack spit toothpaste into his sink. The first time he’s brushed his teeth since yesterday morning. _Fuck me_. Dentist visits are the last thing he wants to think about. Hey look! Acting childish again. Told you he wasn’t growing up. He washed the minty bubbles down the drain before scooping water into his hands and gurgling water in his mouth. His skin was so covered in sweat and grime that he tasted the saltiness of the water from just being in his hands. Jack spit it out quickly, then spluttered a few dry gags just for the sake of getting the disgusting taste out.

He pushed himself away from the sink and watched the mirror closely. His reflection stared back at him. He was still a mess, the redness under his eyes had faded, but he wouldn't exactly want to be seen like this in public. In a three day old T-Shirt and pajama pants.

Had anyone seen it yet? It’s been weeks, weeks of him noticing the difference at least. Was it obvious? Mark had seen through him, sure, but he was _crying._ There wasn’t a much more straight forward clue that someone’s feeling upset than that. Jack edits his videos. He would see if he looked or acted different more than anyone, and he could nitpick over the tiny things he does wrong, or strangely, or not funny enough for hours, but he doubted anyone else would see it.

Jack unlocked his phone and clicked onto YouTube, onto the comments for his most recent videos. Okay, not so bad. There was the usual; liked the video, hated the video, pointing out funniest moments, dumb jokes that had nothing to do with the video at all, SEPTIPLIER AWAY!!!1!, jump scare times, ...and _of course they saw it_. Nothing gets past them. One thing about putting your personal life on the internet is that anyone who wants to can put it on the operating table and cut into every little detail.

_‘is it just me or does jack seem a little off in his recent videos?’_

Great job, MLPlover56, you won!

The replies were the worst part;

_‘I saw that too’,_

_‘is he ok?’,_

_‘His smile seemed a bit weird, like he wasn’t really happy’,_

_‘i was gonna comment this...hope ur ok jack’,_

_‘he doesn’t look as happy as usual’,_

_‘He’s probably just tired’._

There were others, but Jack didn’t feel like reading through them. Jack locked his eyes to the mirror, and he smiled. And by that I mean he forced himself to smile like he usually does, like ‘jacksepticeye’ does.

Jack frowned. The reflection didn't show a happy person, even when he was smiling. He fiddled with his hair, attempted to make it look neat, then he smiled again. Wide enough to make the corners of his mouth ache. No luck. Jack watched his reflection eagerly. It wasn't happy. He wasn't happy. He could almost see the way his face was split, between the bottom half grinning in joy, and the top half wallowing in misery. _What the fuck?_ Jack breathed out.

He splashed his face with water, pushed his hair back, rubbed his eyes free of left over tears, took his shirt off, put another on, changed into jeans, brushed his hair. And finally, again, he smiled.

And he looked miserable _. No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no...it's been years. Grow the fuck up. Be happy damn it. Please be happy._

All that work, all that energy for nothing. Jack’s dirty clothes lay on a pile on the floor. Why didn’t it work? Nothing happened! Nothing changed! He was happy. He was happy an hour ago! Why? Why didn’t it _work?_

Jack huffed. He felt angry enough to smash something. _Don't smash the mirror, moron_. That would just be something else to clean. In all honesty, Jack didn’t even believe breaking something would help, it would probably just make him feel worse. But he was so frustrated, with the world, with himself, with everything. And usually he could move past it. He has been doing that for years now, I mean, everyone gets angry once in a while. But he hasn’t felt this frustration in a while, and he certainly hasn’t dared to think of how he used to get rid of it.

No. _No_. Jack is better than that. That’s the reason he got into this mess in the first place. He’s not starting again.

Jack’s razor seemed so much more useful now, so much more persuasive. It was just a drawer away from him. Jack’s wrists itched. He scratched them instead, hard. It was good enough for now. ‘For now’? _No, forever._ He promised his sister, and he promised himself. _Don’t make anyone worry just because you can’t handle yourself_. He was fine. He stopped. He didn’t need to then...he doesn’t now.

_Relax. Relax. Relax._

_Please._


	6. Chapter 6

Jack traced the patterns on his thighs. Most had faded completely by now. You probably wouldn’t even realise what they were if you didn’t know. Little white lines. That’s all they were. Little white lines where his skin had seared itself back together. The ones that were more obvious were made when he was angriest, but some of the lighter ones stayed too. It almost pains Jack to call them scars. Because when you say ‘scars’, it’s so obvious what they are. And people assume it’s obvious why you have them. Because you’re insane, or weird, or emo, or depressed. ‘Depressed’ is probably the nicest thing to be called from that list, but it still didn’t sit well with Jack.

Jack had already posted his videos for that day. The heaviness he had been feeling for weeks now still hadn’t layed off, and he was certain that it was showing in his videos. He had become used to seeing worry comments from fans by now, they showed up in nearly every video he’s posted since he first started noticing them himself. Mark calls him more often, too. Not that he’s complaining, it’s nice to talk to somebody for once, but every call or text just reeks with pity.

Jack sat back in his chair with a sigh. He was only half awake that morning, so he never bothered to cover his lower half with anything more than his underpants. He filmed his two videos wearing only a shirt and underwear. Who was he? Mark?

Jack looked back to his thighs. He sure had been thinking about Mark a lot. Actually, more than that. He was completely and utterly fixated on Mark, and what he knew. And what Jack knew he knew. Mark had seen him crying on Skype. He's talked to him every day. He's seen his videos. He _knows_ Jack isn’t himself, so who’s to say he hasn’t told anyone else that? He inhaled sharply. _Stop. You’re thinking too much about this._ The amount of time Jack has spent worrying about this was verging on paranoia. Jack breathed, tried to steady his heartbeat. This is ridiculous. He let out a particularly ragged breath, and just that was enough for something to snap into place.

Jack thought he was going to cry, he expected it, from all the whining he’s felt like he’s been doing the past week. But, instead, he was filled with a burning rage. A rage towards himself. He clenched his fists, which dug his nails into his thigh, but the most he felt was a dull ache where his fingers scraped on his skin.

Jack’s breathing wavered, then sped up once again. He was breathing hard, _loud_. It felt like no matter how many deep breaths he took, he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs. Like he was lying face down in water. He clenched his jaw. It wasn’t often when he got this angry, but when he did, it hit him hard. It would usually be from a slow build up until he eventually couldn’t take it any more. Jack punched his thigh. Another dull ache spread through his leg. This wasn’t enough. He deserved more. He _needed_ more. Something true and real, something he could control, something to make him feel _alive_.

It had been on his mind for a while, now. And in his current state he had already let himself drift back into his old coping habits. Like snapping bands on his wrist, or digging his nails into his skin, like he was doing a moment ago. It wouldn’t be too far of a step to take. It’s not like it’s a bad thing. It would help him, and even if it hurt, even if it wasn’t good for him, it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to go batshit crazy. No. Nothing like that. If anything, it would keep him stable. Jack remembers what it felt like when he first pressed a blade against his skin. It was so freeing, once he got past the initial guilt and nausea. It wasn’t like he had a problem with seeing his blood, at times it even relaxed him, watching the red droplets slink down his legs, watching the way it acted, how it _was_ a little thicker than water after all. Maybe it was just his brain knowing that what he was doing wasn’t right. It’s initial response was to say ‘no’ to the situation. But it’s been months since he’s been this frustrated with himself all at once, and years since he’s actually cut himself. He has _years_ of tension to relieve, it would feel even more incredible now, it had to.

With his mind made up, Jack practically leapt from his chair. He didn’t realise how fast his heart had been beating, or how wobbly his legs had become. He stumbled all the way to his bathroom and began rifling through his drawers. _Why the fuck am I so unorganized?_ That’s a good point. He should probably clean his bathroom a little more, sort things into the places they need to be. Jack could have chuckled at the thought of actually having a clean room right now. Pristine floors, porcelain tub, and a neatly kept drawer labeled ‘RAZOR BLADES’. Yeah, that’s the life.

Jack shoved some more things around in the drawer before finally, _finally_ finding what he’d been looking for. He held the metal blade carefully, as if it were delicate, between two fingers. Jack’s gut filled with nervous anticipation, just like when he was young. He stared at the blade a moment more before the butterflies in his stomach turned into something different. Determination.

Jack rested his foot on the side of his bathtub, then lined the edge of the blade up to a spot on the top of his thigh, and swiped it across his skin. The initial pain was brief, and what came after was always fine to deal with. Jack had never cut deep enough for a cut to be unbearable, in fact, most days he could easily do as he usually would, ignoring the fiery pain he could feel when he walked.

Jack breathed. In...out...in...out. _It’s okay now. The decision is made._ Jack slid the blade against his skin again, and repeated it a few more times. They weren’t even that deep, just enough to bleed, to break the first few layers of skin, no more. By now, Jack had settled down enough to breath normally once again. He turned the blade slightly, focused on the corner, and pricked at an empty patch of skin. He swiveled the blade a few times, almost in a drilling motion. He wondered how much pressure you would have to put on the blade to cut deeper. At the moment, this method wasn’t giving up any greater results than his usual cuts did. Jack noted the amount of pressure he applied, and the way he would hold off a little. So he’s too much of a coward for even this, huh?

Jack shook his head. It’s fine. He’d been punished enough for now. Another spark of pain shot through his leg to remind him of this fact.

_At least it will be easier this time_ , Jack thought. He remembers all of the fuss he would go to trying to hide his scars and blades when he first started to cut, and how paranoid he would be about someone finding out, even to the point where he found himself hiding blades in his school bag, wrapped in tissues and paper. To anyone else, it may have just looked like trash, but Jack knew better. Now that he lived alone, there would be no worries about that sort of stuff. He _could_ have a drawer labeled ‘RAZOR BLADES’ if he damn well pleased. Nobody would know.

Jack felt a happiness stirring within him. He was right, that hit the spot. Even now, while still sticky with blood and sweat, he could feel that old upbeat energy returning

He set the razor down beside his sink. He wet some toilet paper, then began washing the streaks of blood from his leg. Toilet paper couldn’t be good for wounds, Jack thinks, even dry it would probably pull apart and leave fibers inside cuts. The last thing he needed was an infection, even though he doubted it was possible with these few cuts. When Jack got to the cuts themselves, he dampened a towel instead to clean them. The blood smeared more than actually wiped away. But they weren’t bleeding that badly, so a bandage probably wasn’t necessary, and he’s run out of band aids. Jack grabbed a pair of sweat pants from the floor. They were old and stretched out, and the colour had faded badly. He didn’t particularly mind bleeding through them, if that’s what it came to.

A quick, melodic chime startled Jack before he had more time to think. It was a Skype call.

Jack checked quickly in his mirror, to see if he looked presentable... _eh it’ll have to do_. He had, thankfully, had a couple of short washes between now and his crying Skype call with Mark. Two showers were definitely not as many as he could use in that almost month long bracket, but hey, it’s something. The drying blood on his leg was probably a good enough reason to have a shower tonight anyway.

The call persisted. Jack didn’t feel the need to rush to answer. He assumed it was Mark again, calling ‘just to say hi’ and more white lies like that. Jack could tell Mark was checking up on him. The most one on one contact they used to have was maybe a call once a week, at most. But now, Mark seemed determined to have some kind of contact with Jack at least once every day. They were running out of things to talk about. Jack didn’t have anything new to say, and Mark always felt the need to ask Jack how he’s doing. Like he didn’t ask that same question the day prior.

Still ringing.

Jack wonders what Mark would think if he didn’t answer. There had been days when Jack had missed the call, and Mark would call back a few minutes later, or Jack would send a message claiming to be busy editing or whatever the situation may be, but either way, Jack would always do something to settle Mark’s nerves.

Now, what if he just didn’t do anything? What if he answered no calls, no texts, no game invites. What would they think?

_Christ. Who can be bothered calling this long?_

Jack stormed back into his recording room.

Oh. It’s Felix.

...

Never mind, then

Jack pressed the answer icon and his computer began to load the video feed. Soon enough, Felix’s familiar face filled his screen. Jack remembers when the closest he’d have to a moment like this was watching a PewDiePie video. And now they’re friends on Skype, and in real life, and Jack sometimes forgets how lucky he is.

“Hey, asshole. Took you long enough”  
Felix laughed

“Yeah...sorry about that”  
Jack’s leg twitched  
“What’s up?”

“Oh, so now the YouTube fame’s gotten so into your head, I can’t even just call to say hi anymore?”

Call to say hi. That sounds familiar.

“Mark wanted me to check up on you, also. You know, we’ve both been getting messages from your fans asking about you”

Jack’s stomach dropped

“Oh, really?” He tried his best to sound oblivious “What about?”

“Said you didn’t look the same in your most recent videos”

Jack stayed quiet, watching Felix and begging he didn't have to deal with  _another_ person worrying about him.

“So I watched them for myself, and I can see it, too”

“How?”

Jack wasn’t sure what he meant by this. _How did you see it? How am I different?_

Apparently, Felix took it as the latter, because he proceeded

“You look...sadder. I don’t know, I mean, you look like shit _now_ ” Felix motioned towards Jack “No offence. You can kinda tell in your videos, too”

Jack thought he had covered at least his physical appearance up well enough. _I guess I was wrong._

“Well...I-I’m sorry to worry you all...I’m fine though, just tired”

“Seriously?”

Jack tried to ignore the way his heart sped up. _Just stay calm. He won’t suspect anything if you stay calm._

“Yeah. Haven’t been sleeping well lately. Too much coffee”

Felix watched Jack for maybe a moment longer than necessary. Looking for cracks in his lie. _Well, too bad Felix. You’re not getting anything from me_.

“Okay, well, I’m glad that’s all it is. Mark was pretty worried about you”

Mark. Mark _did_ tell someone after all. Maybe Jack could have expected it. It’s not like they pinky sweared a secret or anything, but he just hoped his paranoia was just that. Apparently not.

“Jack? You okay?”

Felix snapped Jack out of his thoughts

“Yeah, yeah. ‘m fine. Tell Mark that, too”

And it’s not that he’s lying exactly. He feels a hell of a lot better than he did that morning. It really was a great way to get his frustrations out. He should keep that in mind.

“Okay, will do”


	7. Chapter 7

Jack had been able to keep all of his cuts reserved to his legs and thighs for quite some time, to make them easier to hide. But now that he’s not being monitored by siblings, and parents, and school locker rooms, maybe he could finally carve up his arms like he always wanted to.

It’s a strange sort of curious attraction, to the blade, and to his arms. They’re a lot skinnier, so Jack would expect it would be a lot easier to cut past the fat. He should keep that in mind, he doesn’t want any accidents.

Diluted red washed down the drain. He forgot how much the little ones could bleed. Granted, they had all started to dry up and develop scabs while he was talking to Felix, but they had started bleeding once again after Jack started picking at them.

Jack closed his eyes, and moved his face under the water, trying to imagine what was in his closet. He had enough long sleeves to cover his arms if it came to that, and it’s not like he would need to cover them when he was alone.

The water was warm and pleasant to touch. He had been so against having a shower, but he had forgotten how nice it was to feel the heat wash over his skin. Jack sighed and leaned against the shower wall.

_Why would Mark tell him?_

What happened to Mr. Nice Guy who doesn’t spill secrets? Jack didn’t even tell him what was going on! There was no reason to tell anyone to worry about him, or whatever he did. Jack fumed. He can’t remember a time when Mark had angered him so much, and it was ridiculous. Whatever Mark was worried about was none of his business, however true it may be...

Maybe it isn’t fair for him to be pissed at Mark. Maybe he didn’t do anything wrong. What would Jack have done if their roles were reversed? Jack sighed again. He knows if Mark, or Felix, or anyone else found out the truth everything would go to shit. He would have his friends hounding him, asking him questions, he’d have to go back to therapy. Nothing would be the same.

But at the same time...might it be nice to talk to someone?

  
...

  
No. Best to keep it to himself for now. It’s not even that big of a deal, just getting tension out. He’s not going to kill himself or anything.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

He spent a while longer in the bathroom, brushing his teeth and inspecting his hair. He really does need it re-dyed...maybe he could get a bleaching and dyeing kit when he next goes out to buy food - which has to be soon. He can’t live off junk forever.

The room was hot from steam and it was nice just standing there in the warmth, feeling the cleanest he has for a long time. A smile tugged at his lips, without even needing to force it on. Maybe it was sick that he felt so refreshed after he had cut himself, and maybe it was wrong that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about doing it again since then, but if this is what brought back the happy-go-lucky guy they all know and love, what’s the big deal?

It was early in the morning when he finally emerged from the bathroom, around 2 AM, he checked as he went to turn off his computer, which is also when he saw all of the missed calls and messages from Mark. A shot of anger rushed through him, followed by a pang of guilt. _He was just trying to help._ The messages were so friendly, too. He shouldn’t be mad, but that didn’t stop him from still feeling a little betrayed.

Jack flicked through his texts. There were only a couple. Mark wasn’t obsessing over him at least. He had a couple messages on Skype saying that he talked to Felix, and a message to call him later. _So they’re talking about me?_ Jack knew that Mark had talked to Felix, obviously, and he told Felix to tell Mark he was okay, but he didn’t expect him to get back to Mark that day, let alone that hour. _Are they just taking turns babysitting me?_

He was going to just let it go. He was going to turn off his computer and just go to bed, but the longer he stared at Mark’s contact in his phone the more he wanted to call him. He didn’t know for sure if it was because of anger or if he just wanted to talk to him. He was feeling so many emotions at the same time and he didn’t know which one to listen to.

He pressed the ‘call’ button, hoping Mark wouldn’t ask too many questions, and also hoping that he would. _My brain is fucked right now._ He needed some sleep. The call rang through three times, and just as Jack was beginning to think Mark wasn’t going to answer, a familiar voice came through the speaker.

“Hey!” He sounded so cheerful, and it brought a smile to Jack’s face, as much as he’d like to deny it.

“Hi”

“You’re up late. Isn’t it, like the middle of the night in Ireland?”

“Almost two thirty”

“What?! You need sleep! What are you doing calling me?”

“Hey, _you_ messaged _me_ , asshole”

“Okay, sorry” Mark laughed “I just wanted to let you know Felix called me. You feeling better?”

The shot rang through Jack again.

“I was fine to begin with”

And maybe he spat it out a little to mad, because Jack could practically hear the smile drop from Mark’s face.

“Okay...sorry then”

Jack sighed “Don’t be sorry”

“I was just...”

“It’s fine. _There’s nothing to be sorry about._ ” He spoke through gritted teeth.

Jack could feel the tension stringing them up like webs, but he just kept fueling it. He couldn’t drop the upset tone from his voice, and he really didn’t want Mark to think he was mad at him, except he was, and he kind of wanted Mark to know that. He really did need some sleep.

“Are you okay now?”

“Didn’t we just go through this?” _You’re just tired. Don’t take it out on him._

“Why are you so mad?”

“Maybe I didn’t expect you to get Felix to check up on me. I get it. I fucked up. You saw me cry. I’m pathetic. Thank you” _Stop it._

“You aren’t...you’re not pathetic, Jack”

“Whatever”

“I’m sorry I talked to Felix. I should have asked you first, but I was worried about you. What would you think if I just started crying while talking to you?”

”I said I was fine” _He’s going to hate you._

”I know, and maybe I should have respected that more, but it‘s just hard to tell sometimes with you. You‘re so far away, I don‘t get to see how you are very often, and it‘s hard to judge from your videos, especially recently”

“What does that mean?”

“It means...” Mark sighed “you’re just...you’re making a lot of jokes, and talking about a lot of things that some of us might not have expected from your usual content.” Mark spoke like he was walking on eggshells. “It’s fine if you’re changing things up a bit, but-”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t realise how dark you’ve been acting? At first I took it as a joke, but it’s continued for a while now, and, _c_ _hrist_ , you’ve made _suicide jokes_ in your most recent videos. That’s not like you”

Jack thought back to his memories of his past few videos. He couldn’t quite form a full memory of them.

“So, I can’t use humour to lighten up a sad topic?” _That’s right. Bullshit your way through it, moron._

“It really didn’t sound like that’s what you were doing. You just flat out talked about suicide-”

“Okay, I’ll keep that in mind every time I make a video; never ever, _ever_ make any mention towards suicide. Will that make you happy? Should I make a sign?” He shouted through the receiver.

“Jack-”

“What right do you have to psychonalyze my videos?”

“Jack-”

“Can I not do anything but what I’ve been doing for five years now?”

“Sean” Jack was quiet. Mark only made an effort to use his real name when he was being serious “I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m sorry, I was out of line talking to Felix. It just didn’t sound like you. I’m sorry”

They were each silent, aside from a few deep, frustrated exhales from Jack’s nose. Jack even thought that Mark had hung up for a moment before;

“It’s just...” Mark started.

“It doesn’t matter, Mark. I’m fine, I already told you that" Jack rubbed his eyes with one of his hands. With his anger fading away a strange feeling was beginning to fill his gut. “Besides, what difference would it make? You’re on the other side of the world. Everyone I know is hours away”

Jack made an effort not to sound too sad, because he didn’t even think what he was feeling _was_ sadness. It was just...

“Well, someone can visit." Mark cut into his thought, “me or Felix, or... _anyone_. Anyone and everyone is willing to help you, no matter if we have plans or anything like that.”

There he is with offering 'help’, good old Mark.

“You’re more important to us."

_He cares too much._

“You’re more important to _me_ ”

_...He’s lying._

Words couldn’t find their way to Jack’s mouth. The feeling still wouldn’t leave him be. He couldn’t find the word for it, kind of like...homesickness? No, loneliness? Not really...

“Jack?”

it was like a desperate clawing at his heart, or bugs crawling in his stomach.

“Are you there?”

It’s too complicated.

“I shouldn’t have dragged you into this. I’m sorry” Jack sighed, guilt washing over him once again.

“You have no reason to be sorry. Don’t apologise”

He was just so tired.

“I’m tired, Mark”

“...I know.” Mark took an awful long time to answer, and his voice still had a sound to it like he was walking on paper thin ice. “You’re gonna be okay. Everything’s fine, Jack. You’ll see everyone in a few weeks”

Jack spits out a melancholic chuckle, although not sure why he would find that statement at all funny. He tried his best to keep the foggy tiredness away until he could finally hang up and sleep.

“Mark..." he starts, “I’m not-...I’m sorry” he laughs again, through a sigh. It was less of a laugh and more of a morbid expression of his mood. Tired, depressed, confused. Exhausted in both mind and body.

“What are you sorry about?” he hears curiosity in Mark’s voice.

Jack laid his head in his hand.

“I shouldn’t have done this.” he sighed, “ I shouldn’t have... _fuck_ ”

“What? Jack? What did you do?” and he hears the curiosity turn to panic.

“Nothing, Mark” _He doesn’t really care._

“...I’m here for you, always. I wish I could be there with you, but I can’t right now...It’s tearing me up inside” _He shouldn’t be worrying about you. He wouldn’t care if he never spoke to you again._

“You don’t need to say that. You shouldn’t worry about me”

“I’ll do anything I can to help you though this, Jack. Just talk to me”

Jack would have honestly said anything just so he could hang up and fall asleep into blissful nothingness, but he wasn’t sure what Mark wanted to hear, so he laughed again, so quietly he isn’t sure if Mark could even hear it or not.

“Face it, Mark. You’re ten hours away. Even if I _did_ kill myself _right now_ you wouldn’t be able to stop me” _Would he want to?_

Jack heard a gasp from the other man and kept his phone pressed to his ear close enough that he could hear the dreadful hysteria make its way into his fastening breaths.

“Jack? Jack?! Don’t-don’t do anything! Fuck! What did you do?” Mark spoke in all long sentences, never giving Jack a chance to butt in even if he particularly wanted to.

_Making him worry for you? You sick fuck. You’re fine. Stop complaining._

“Don’t get fuckin’ hysterical, man.” Jack somehow managed to cut into one of Mark’s panicked paragraphs, “I was only jokin’. I’m tired, gotta go” He went to pull the phone away from his ear.

“No”

Jack sighed. _You should have just said you were fine. What the fuck are you doing?_

“Mark. Bye” These damn voices.

“Leave Skype on” Mark caught his attention just as he was going to hang up.

“What?”

“I just want to know you’re okay. If you’re going to sleep, leave Skype on, and turn on the camera so I can see you” Mark sounded sure of himself, and was trying to stay calm, but Jack could hear traces of worry left in his voice.

“That’s really creepy, dude” He raised an eyebrow.

“Please, Jack”

Jack sighed. He doesn't think there's a person in the world who could resist giving in to Mark.

“Okay, fine" He rubbed his eyelids again, while they grew heavier by the second. “I'll leave it on."

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

They talked while he set up his laptop by his bed, or rather, after every minute or so of silence Mark would ask if Jack was still there, or if he was okay, and Jack would answer usually with a one word response, untangling his charger and facing the webcam towards his bed.

He sent a Skype request to Mark, and it is answered almost as soon as it was sent.

Mark didn’t have his webcam on, but Jack’s was on full display for Mark. He saw the view of his bed in the corner of his screen.

“This looks really weird, dude” He voiced his thoughts out loud.

Mark chuckled, “Yeah, well you’re not getting out of it just because of that. Don’t worry, I won’t watch you all night, just keep it on for me, okay?” Jack could practically hear Mark’s puppy dog eyes.

“Okay”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry I was away for so long. I really have no schedule or plan for when I upload chapters, it's just whenever I have finished and am happy enough with them, and when I have good enough internet to post. I just wanted to say that I do not condone self harm. I write fics like these for my own enjoyment and writing practice only. If you are struggling with self harm I would suggest you don't read this fic or read at your own risk, and please get help. I know it can be scary but there's no reason that you need to battle this alone. There is always someone to tell, whether it is a parent, or if you aren't comfortable admitting your self harm to your parents just yet, confiding in a councilor, therapist or close friends can honestly take so much weight off your shoulders. Stay safe :)


	8. Chapter 8

The feeling of dread didn’t leave Mark’s stomach for quite some time after that. He tried his best to avoid thinking about it, by playing games or watching YouTube, but his mind and eyes were always brought back eventually to the small man asleep on the screen of his laptop. He sighed. There was a certain amount of privacy every person deserves, and maybe watching Jack sleep was crossing a line, but it made him feel a lot better than not knowing what was going on with him.

Jack started to fidget in his sleep, it looked like he could be having a nightmare. Mark couldn’t hear anything; Jack had turned his mic off before he fell asleep.

He calls Felix. He isn’t sure why exactly, especially because the reason he was in this mess was because he and Felix had been discussing Jack behind his back, but he needed advice, and Felix was already in deep enough.

“Mark it’s the middle of the night” Felix groaned

“Sorry if I woke you”

“You should be. I need my beauty sleep” Felix laughed.

There was a sound of a door closing, which probably meant he was going into a different room to talk so he wouldn’t disturb Marzia.

“Listen, you talked to Jack today, right?"

“Yesterday.” Felix voiced his annoyance again, although Mark knew he didn’t really mind. He had woken Felix up for much more trivial things than this “Yeah, I did, why?”

“Did he-”

A movement from his screen brought his attention back to Jack, who looked close to stirring awake

“-hang on” he turned his own mic off so Jack wouldn’t wake up to their talking. Mark started again,

"Did he seem okay?"

“Yeah, he was fine, I thought"

“...okay..."

“Why, what's up?"

“I just..." Mark sighed “I called him earlier and he was really pissed that I had told you I was worried about him"

“So your solution is to call me and talk about him again?"

“No. I-" he sighed again “I don't know what to do, and I need some advice, and of course I don't want to make Jack upset, but I really think this is getting serious"

“How serious?" the comedic tone had dropped from Felix's voice, and Mark wondered if he was a little more worried about Jack than he let on

“Serious like...like..."

He tried to think of a way to best voice the situation, or decide if he should even tell Felix at all

“Mark, if it's really serious you should do what you think is right" Felix seemed to answer that for him, and Mark's mind was made up.

“When I called him earlier he said he was fine at first, then he got really upset at us talking about him, and then..." he took a breath “and then he said that if he killed himself right then I wouldn't have been able to do anything to stop him"

Felix was silent

“Are you still there?"

“Yeah, yeah, I just..." he trailed off “what did you do after he said that?"

“I got him to call me on Skype, I have a live view of him asleep right now"

“Okay, so he's okay now?"

“Yeah, I guess, he's just asleep. I just- I couldn't really tell if he was being serious or not and-"

“Mark. He's _not_ okay. Something is obviously going on that he's not telling us about. Do you know if one of his family members died or something?"

“I think he would have told us if something like that happened"

“You don't know for sure. Do you think you ever would have imagined Jack threatening suicide before it happened?"

“He didn't threaten suicide"

“You said that's what he did"

“He just said a fact. He said ‘If I killed myself right now you wouldn't be able to stop me'. _A fact_. He did not say he was going to kill himself" Mark's voice rose a little, sounding frustrated, but all he felt was anxiety.

“Okay. Calm down, we're all worried about him, Mark"

Mark took a deep breath in, then let it out, trying to calm himself.

“That's the thing though, it's not all of us. It's just me and you. Nobody else knows what he's been saying"

“Well, what do you want to do?"

“...just keep an eye on him with me for now. We don't want to give out his personal problems to anyone else, so just be there to support him with me. We'll see how he is at PAX if it doesn't get this bad again until then"

“Sure. I'll check on him tomorrow. Maybe we could collab?" Felix yawned.

“Yeah, that'd be good. Get some sleep, I'll watch him for now"


	9. Chapter 9

Waking up with camera pointed at Jack was...weird to say the least, even if that camera came in the form of his laptop. He wakes up late; when he checks the time it’s already past 11. Mark is no where to be seen on the Skype call, Jack figures he couldn’t have just sat there watching him the entire time, he probably got up to get something from the other room, or to eat, or sleep (what time was it in LA again?). He stretched his arms above his head, and quickly cancelled the Skype call; nobody needed to see him after he just woke up. He was about to get ready for the day before realizing he should probably leave Mark a message. He types one out quickly:

‘Morning, I’m fine. Thanks for checking up on me last night’

_If you sound grateful he won’t call again_

The truth was, last night was awful and awkward. He turned away from the camera and found himself lying as still as possible so Mark would think he was asleep and wouldn’t watch, then he had to fight the urge to roll over and check if Mark was watching him. But if he acted like he was thankful, like he was okay, like he was _normal_ , well, there wouldn’t be any reason to worry.

While changing he catches sight of his thighs, and the familiar want is back. It’s ridiculous, how can a person have a craving for pain? But - as ridiculous as it is - it’s there.

It works well for him, for what it is, at least. It doesn’t take over Jack at first; he’s able to keep things organised, planned, _clean_. No matter how badly he hates himself when he swipes the blade over his skin, he realized after waking up that day that he can’t afford to get an infection.

For the next few days it’s almost like he makes a deal with himself. If he gets up early, records on time and uploads every day, he can cut himself. It becomes almost like a ritual, replacing his old schedule

Step 1. Wake up

Step 2. Eat (semi-optional)

Step 3. Record

Step 4. Edit

Step 5. Upload

Step 6. Cut

Step 7. Shower

Step 8. Eat

Step 9. Sleep

And as wrong as it is, he’s the most organised that he’s been for months. It’s not _bad_. He’s not going crazy over it. There aren’t times when he’ so overtaken by frustration or sadness that he _has_ to drop everything that he’s doing and cut and cut and _cut_ , but the pay-off when he does is still as refreshing as he remembers.

Mark still calls, just not as often, almost like they’re back on their old talking/texting schedule, like normal friends do. Felix invites him to collab, and he agrees, and there’s a sweet feeling of victory that Jack stifles with his next cut.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Through all the fuss with Mark and Felix, Jack almost forgot that he had his fans watching him, too, and with each new video there was another chance that one of them would point out the light bags under his eyes, or his changing attitude from happy-go-lucky, crack addict happiness to a more mild persona.

But it was the strangest thing.

After Jack had gotten into his new routine, as great as it made him feel on the surface, his old anxieties came back. The thought that someone, somehow, would guess what he was doing to himself. The feeling that he would screw up one day and show them, and then everything would be over. Then he uploaded one of the first videos he had filmed after he had made his thighs a patchwork of red lines, expecting the worst, and instead he got a better response than he could have asked for;

‘looking good, Jack!’

‘I’m so glad Jack’s taking better care of himself. He looks so much better than he did last week’

‘great video! :)’

‘Funniest video you’ve made for a while’

So many positive comments. So many people saying he looked great, well rested, healthy, _happy_. So many people saying he’s better this week than he was last week.

And Jack has to admit, he doesn’t completely understand it. When he looks at his face in the bathroom mirror, he can’t help but notice the dark around his eyes, his beard growing longer than necessary, his hair still fading because he keeps forgetting to buy the damn hair dye, and there’s still the voice in his head pointing them all out, saying he’s not good enough for them. Then he smiles, and he sees it. _He sees it_. He looks happy. His smile stretches across his face, and shows just the right amount of teeth. His eyes don’t look pained, they look content. Actually, fuck that, they look _ecstatic_ because now he knows, not only is it working for him, it’s working for them as well, and they’re all that matters.

Felix invites him to collab again, and Jack can’t help but notice he’s been asking that a lot lately. Does Felix think he’s getting funnier too? All of this worrying-over-Jack nonsense must be over if Felix wants him on his channel again.

Things are getting better. Less than three months until PAX, and things are finally getting better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there. Sorry for so many long gaps between chapter uploads, and such short chapters lately. I have been trying my best to get each chapter done while also working through school and personal stuff. I won't say that I'm going to make a regular upload schedule because I honestly don't see myself able to keep that up at the moment, but I will put more work into getting chapters out ASAP


	10. Chapter 10

There’s something in his head. It’s not right.

There’s something stuck in his head, screwed tightly into his skull, twisting and winding around his optic nerves, and it’s wrong, and he’s choking. He feels it deep inside of him, reaching out and wrapping around his neck, digging in and fighting past the stubborn flesh until its fingernails are scraping his throat.

He feels each and every sharp edge burrow further at his every inhale, and at each breath he wheezes harder, desperate for a scrap of fresh air.

There is blood everywhere, and it doesn’t look real. But it is, it must be, because this is him. There is flesh and blood and organs everywhere, and Jack can still see.

He can see while the thing rips out his throat, a spurt of blood adding to the river on the ground surrounding him. He sees while the nails rip and tear at his cheeks, taking a new layer of skin off at every swipe. He sees while its claws slice into his chest, past his shirt, in a straight line like he’s in open heart surgery, and then he sees it tug at his ribs, and he feels it, too.

He feels it scratch gashes into the bone, and he feels his ribs being snapped. He feels the nails and the claws - _it_ \- he feels _it_ play with his insides. He feels it shove its hands, slick with his blood, deep into his stomach, slicing open his intestines.

He hears himself screaming, although it sounds a bit off, and it sounds like there is nothing else but himself and silence until;

_'...said you didn’t look the same...’_

_'...are you okay?...’_

He knew those voices, even if they were a little off, he’d recognise them

_‘...flat out talked about suicide...’_

His heart sped up, the guilt and sickness and pain coming back all at once.

_‘...hey asshole, WAKE UP’_

The voice reverberated through his head, where he felt a needle-prick pain. The claws moved back up.

He has to be asleep, he has to be.

He sees the hands get closer to his face, inching at a pace so slow that it stretched out his panic. He feels the nails scratch the surface of his eyes, he feels the liquid rolling down his cheeks, a liquid he isn’t sure is tears, or blood, or whatever else he’s made of.

The voices are twisting and turning, and some he can’t even make out.

He can still see, and he doesn’t know why, or how. He can still feel.

_Please wake up_

_‘...you don’t matter to us...’_   Mark

Why is he still asleep?

_Please, please, God, WAKE UP!_

He can see himself fighting against it, with not much of himself left. He can see gaping holes where his chest and stomach are supposed to be, he can see bloodied messes where he used to have eyes. He can still hear himself screaming bloody murder, and he still hears Mark.

_‘...you don’t matter to me...’_   his words are twisted and wrong, but it's definitely Mark who's saying them.

Why is he still asleep? Why can’t he wake up?

_PLEASE_

He can still feel the hands roaming his weakening body, he can still feel them roam inside of him. He feels a sharp pain in his chest, and he looks down on himself, on Mark and Felix, on _it_ , he sees as it thrusts one razor sharp claw through his heart.

 

And he’s awake. He flicks on his lamp.

He can’t stop breathing funny, even after he gets a look around the room, and at himself and his unopened chest, even then he still can’t stop his lungs from struggling against his breaths or his chest from heaving.

He lays on his bed, trying to breathe, and trying to push what was left of his memory of the dream out of his mind.

He hasn’t had nightmares in a while, not ones that affected him like this at least. With all of the horror games he plays he’s had to get used to one of the monsters from _Amnesia_ showing up in his unconscious, and even then he usually just wakes up and goes on with his day.

These sorts of nightmares - when he can’t even fully remember what happened but he’s scared of going to sleep again - they don’t happen often.

He finally gets his breathing to a steady pase, and he’s almost comfortable enough that he could go back to sleep, but instead he sits on his bed, wide eyes scanning the room every few seconds, as if he expects something to jump out at him.

_It was just a dream, moron_

The voices were hissing in his head, his imagination going into overdrive

_Nobody cares about you_

_Was that a noise?_

_'You don’t matter to me’_

_You don’t matter to them_

_Fucking idiot_

_What’s that shadow?_

_You deserve to fucking die_

With a sigh Jack muffled the voices ever so slightly. He could stop them, at least some of them. He could take a moment and not think about the nightmare or Mark or Felix or his empty apartment, but when he forces himself to not think about the noises from upstairs or the creaking in the hall a whole new wave of hatred comes along. He calls himself stupid and childish and worthless because he’s a grown man but he’s scared of the shadow on his wall.

It’s still dark outside, but when Jack moves his curtain to inspect the sky further he can see dull light over the horizon. If he got back to sleep now he could probably have a couple more hours sleep before he has to begin his day, but as much as his heavy eyelids protested, he couldn’t let himself go back to sleep after that dream.

He only remembers bits and pieces, he tries to put together a full picture as he fixes himself a bowl of cereal (the perks of getting up at 5 AM is he lets himself have time to eat in the morning). It’s always so hard to remember exactly what happened in a dream, whether it’s because you were only half-conscious when you dreamt them or because they were so strange to begin with Jack wasn’t sure, but there were always bits and pieces left for you to scavenge if you were quick enough.

He remembers pain. Not real pain - obviously - he didn’t wake up with searing pain running through him, but he remembers he was in pain. He remembers horror, and when his brain automatically makes the connection between horror and gore, he remembers blood.

There isn’t much more to remember. Jack finds that the harder he tries to reach out and grab the memory the farther he pushes it away. He figures it couldn’t have been as bad as it had felt ten minutes ago if he can’t even remember what happened.

He tells himself he’s let it go, maybe he’d even laugh about it later, but he’s turned every light in the apartment on, and he’s watching TV to distract himself from the urge to scan the room again.

He watches cartoons while eating cereal, and tries to forget the voices that keep creeping out from his memory. Familiar, yet twisted. He wipes a dribble of milk off of his chin. He tells himself it wasn’t real, and not to worry _you fucking idiot._

The voices hissed again, and Jack made no effort to stop them.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ATTENTION]  
> The eagle eyed among you lovely readers would know that this story is tagged with the septiplier pairing - this was my plan from the beginning, although my ideas for incorporating romance into the story have changed as I’ve written each chapter - I have decided to start adding the ‘septiplier’ story arc from this chapter on (although not continuously, and it will be gradual, not just ‘Jack woke up one day and realized he was in love’). Don’t get me wrong, I am fully aware how hard it is to keep up a relationship when you’re in jack’s state of mind, and it is usually unhealthy to pursue a relationship at all if you are in a state similar to Jack. However, any relationship pursued by Jack in this story will be based less on a romantic note and more on a codependency towards the people around him (including Mark) that Jack will develop. (There may also be themes of sexual abuse because I'm an awful person but hey, suffering is what you're here for, right?). It’s not really something to swoon over, but it’ll be there. Please keep this in mind while reading as future chapters may include situations that seem ‘wrong’ while Jack is in his current state of mind, it’s all part of the story.

The nightmares don’t stop.

For almost a full week Jack became steadily terrified of closing his eyes, for fear of another dream coming his way. Not every night is the same, some dreams are shorter than others, some wake him up in the middle of the night and are so vivid and so painful that he can't get back to sleep, not with his heart hammering in his chest so hard that it hurts. Other nights he’s so tired after waking up that he falls back into the dream, and then he's back on the ground, or against the wall, or on the edge of a rooftop, and he can never breathe.

Eventually, though, they settle down. Jack’s pretty sure that’s the only reason he’s managed to make it through a month. He’s certain he would have snapped if he spent thirty days scared of his own head. And although they still pop up occasionally, he’ll take that over countless consecutive nights.

It’s almost time for PAX. He has everything packed now, except for a small first aid kit he had put together a while back. It had the usual - band-aids and bandages, that sort of stuff - and it’s always better to add extra precautions in case you ever get hurt. But this first aid kit wasn’t for accidents, Jack knew that as soon as he thought about packing it. He told himself that everything was fine, and had been better than ever for months now, but he took the kit out of his bag.

That kit wasn't an object, not even a precaution, it was a decision to be made, a side to choose. No going back.

He’s watching it now - not just looking at it, _watching_ like he expects it to pick itself up, plop itself into his suitcase and make the decision for him. It’s ridiculous to think that he even has a choice at this point, because in the last month he hasn’t been able to go more than two days without feeling the sweet release and the blood seeping over his skin.

He is fine. He tells himself that and he believes it, and even if he weren’t, so what? Who’s really going to care?

He stands up, walks to his bed - where his suitcase lay, open - and tucks the first aid kit between his jeans and hoodies.

A strange sort of spark lights in his stomach, a mix of relief from the decision being made and done, and some excitement for what’s to come, and a sprinkle of doubt; _can you get away with it?_ , but most of all, what was so strong and so powerful that it took over his stomach entirely, was the feeling of queasiness he felt itching it’s way up his throat.

So he hunches himself over his toilet bowl and lets go of the little contents of his stomach, and he rests his head on the bowl and tells himself he’s okay.

But the tendrils of reality were reaching out and wrapping around his neck, choking him in to morbid submission, and he’s beginning to realise he might not be as okay as he thought.

_No going back._

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He’s recording part three of a horror game, and his character gets attacked. The villain stabs a knife at her arm, and she gets some deep slashes, the game animating far too much blood for it to be realistic that she survived. There’s pixelated gore on the screen, clouding Jack’s vision, and all he can think about is how much he’d like to take that bloodied knife and plunge it deep into his wrist, past the flesh, past the bone and the marrow. To take that knife and cut and cut and cut until there's nothing left he can do.

“Holy shit that was a lot of blood” he laughed. _Keep looking happy. It’s the only thing you’re good at._

The thought has been lingering for so long that Jack has lost any reaction he used to have towards it. He used to feel worry, or anxiousness, or even guilt, but now the thought and even the action of cutting has become so normal in his mind that he doesn’t feel much towards it anymore - apart from the insufferable itching on his thighs.

He’s developed a sort of numbness - only broken by in-the-moment fun or his occasional bouts of self loathing. Often he’ll find himself wondering _what’s the point of anything?_ and finding no answer.

He goes outside, because his apartment is beginning to make him feel like he's suffocating, and what does it matter if someone saw him like this - tired and disheveled, on his third day without showering?. He doubts fans would even recognise him if they saw him, with his too-long and matted hair, and the thinness of his frame looking like he could collapse into himself. It's a mystery to him how they all fall for it online, he hasn't read a single worry comment for at least a week now, things really can brighten up when he just gets over himself and acts the way he's supposed to.

Jack crosses the street without looking, because if he were to get hit by a car, how bad would it really be?

He reached the other side of the road - in one piece, much to Jack's surprising disappointment - and suddenly realised that he had no plan of where to go or what to do. He stands on the edge of the side-walk, unmoving, for so long that the people passing him began to give him strange looks. With a sigh Jack figured he might as well re-stock his groceries, even though last time he did that he didn't end up eating any of it in time and he had to scoop the moulding produce out of his fridge with plastic bags. He doesn't know where his appetite has gone. He knows it's common with depression, but it's a first for Jack - this feeling in his stomach that he'll never be full, but every meal choice he finds in his kitchen seems unappetizing. Still, he'll have to do something soon, because he's getting even skinnier than usual, and soon it'll start showing on his face. The last thing he needs is for them to start seeing something's wrong again.

_Fucking move it_ the voice piped up  _or can't you do even that?_

Jack made his way down the street towards the local supermarket.

_Christ_ Jack swears

When did his life become so boring? Is this really the same life he was living a few months ago, when he would thank God that he was given all that he was? When did his apartment get so small, and when did his friends' calls become so tiring, and when did his brain go wrong? Is this really all there is?

It’s getting closer and closer to the date, counting lower and lower down in the countdown, and all Jack wants is for it to be worth looking forward to. Because he realised one (thankfully nightmare-less) night, that it’s really the only thing he has been looking forward to. Without PAX, without this panel, he would have nothing worth waiting around for, and Jack just hopes it’s worth the stress and the sadness and the nightmares.

Even if they’re not quite nightmares anymore.

Jack squeezes his eyes closed, shaking the thought out of his head, and walks through the sliding doors.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

While searching through his drawers and cabinets, making sure he hasn’t left anything unpacked that he’d like with him in LA, he found a small metal toolkit. Although when he got it the box was sorted and filled with the right tools, overtime Jack ended up using it as a storage place for random crap he found around his house and he didn’t know where to put, then it was shoved in the back of a cupboard to hide his shame.

He was curious, so he decided to take a look inside.

Some of the original tools were still in there - some screwdrivers of varying sizes, a small spanner - but for the most part the box was filled with random nick-nacks and some paper rubbish that spilled over the side when Jack opened up the lid.

Jack smiled as he rustled through the contents of the box - broken pencils, screws and nails, a couple of bulldog clips, a tangled pair of headphones that only play through one ear - and he wondered why he hadn’t bothered throwing some of this stuff away - a handful of small semi-realistic dog figurines, a handful of old gum wrappers. He can really be a pig sometimes.

There’s one thing that did catch his eye, though. An unopened packet made of cardboard, and encased in plastic.

A ready-to-use X-ACTO cutting knife and three replacement blades.

For the first few weeks he made it through just using razors from his bathroom, and when he ran out of those to use - when they all turned out bloody and too rusty to use - he turned to knives. He would slice and prick at his thighs and lower legs with vegetable knives from his kitchen drawer, then clean them up and put them back, careful not to use them for food until he'd forgotten which ones he had used to cut and which ones he hadn’t.

A knife like this would be useful, and he could easily pick a few more up next time he’s out - that wouldn’t look quite as strange as it would if he went up to the counter with only three-packs of new razor blades. Or, as the rational side of Jack chimed in, it would look just as strange, but he would feel less suspicious so he'd look less suspicious, so there'd be no problem, right?

Without thinking much of it, numb to the bone, Jack pocketed the pen knife and returned the tool box to the back of the dusty cupboard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that was an awful long wait for not much, huh? Sorry about that. Without going into much detail, recently my anxiety has been getting worse due to issues at home and I've not really given myself time to sit down and do what I enjoy. I hope to get better soon and get back in to writing because I honestly love writing this so much (I know I'm sick), so here's for better mental health!  
> Finally, thank you all so much for all of your lovely comments and support. It sounds strange, but they've really helped me begin to claw my way out of this creative slump, thanks for reading.


	12. Chapter 12

Mark scrolled through Jack’s channel for what must have been the third time that hour.

Seeing his face – smiling, laughing, actually happy and once-again normal – helped Mark to forget his worries of the man’s mental state. And he really needed to do that. Because it’s been weeks since Jack opened up to him, and he was so caught up in whatever blown-up version of Jack's personal problems (that Mark doesn’t even know a damn thing about) that Mark had created to fuel his own anxiety that at 3 AM two days ago his thumb was hovering over the last digit of 911 in the foolish mindset that if he could just get Jack somewhere safe, somewhere where he knew he couldn’t…

Felix thinks he’s going insane. Mark disagrees. Sure, calling 911 would be stupid, especially so long after Jack mentioned suicide ( _threatened_ suicide, Felix would correct, and then Mark would get pissed off because if Felix thinks he’s being ridiculous, why is he trying to make it sound worse than it is?) but this isn’t something he can just let go of. He can’t just sit back and say ‘well, there’s nothing I can do about it anyway’, especially not when it was Jack himself that pointed out that flaw in their current situation.

He’s been keeping an eye on Jack still, even if he hasn’t told Felix, and even if Jack doesn’t necessarily know it.

It felt like Jack had pulled back a bit since he and Felix began their plan to make sure he was okay. To make sure he was _safe_ to be more accurate. The longer Mark thought about it, the worse his fears got. It began the night of the Skype call, the night where – arguably - Jack was at his worst and - also arguably - the night he started to get better.

It was almost eerie, the shift in his attitude between the night before and whenever he happened to wake up. Mark won’t lie, he missed that part of Jack’s day. It almost gave him a heart attack, walking back into the room with a mug re-filled to the top with scolding coffee (although he took a few breaks, he never went to sleep that night) only to see the call had minimised, his laptop displaying their chat, it’s bright screen glaring at him in the darkness of the room. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure what exactly he thought had happened, he just knows he bounded over to his camp-out spot for the time being - some hot coffee spilling over the edge of his mug and scorching his fingers as he did so - while begging, _praying_ that whatever had happened hadn’t been...bad.

But no, there it was, a morning message from Jack;

_‘Morning, I’m fine. Thanks for checking up on me last night’_

And it was all very flat, no emotion in the text - especially compared to Jack’s usual giddiness. Maybe he was just being ridiculous. Maybe Jack was fine, maybe he just had a bad day. Maybe he woke up, and didn’t want to talk, so he ended the call while Mark wasn’t there.

So, he would have seen Mark’s camera was on.

Mark isn’t sure what possessed him to turn his camera on sometime that was edging into the night. Jack was asleep by then, he’s sure – the slow rise-and-fall of his chest, a sliver of stomach showing where his shirt had ridden up, all signs of a deep slumber - so there would be no point conversation-wise to let Jack see him, and both of their mics were off by then anyway.

Maybe it was loneliness. As stupid (and/or creepy) as it sounds, Mark enjoyed the feeling of being able to see Jack, and liked the idea of Jack being able to see him, too. He really hated being alone, almost always had to have someone with him in his house, at least during the day. It’s just more fun to have someone with you, it’s more comfortable than being alone in a big house. Mark doesn’t know how Jack does it.

When Jack seemed to have completely turned back into himself, it felt like a great thing. And don’t get him wrong, Mark wants to see a happy Jack more than anyone, but when that change happens in the span of a night, maybe two...it just turns out to be a little suspicious.

They haven’t come up with an official name for The Plan yet (and probably won’t), but Mark and Felix, over the past couple of weeks, have found ways of discussing Jack’s health without prying further than they agree is appropriate for the situation. What they discussed at first was that they would check up on him every day at some time - through Skype, text, or phone call - making sure to switch off occasionally so as to not seem suspicious, and if anything seemed off, they would do whatever they deemed suitable to do at the time – whether it be talk to Jack themselves, or consult the other, or, if worse came to worst, call the emergency services. Felix would plan collabs for the both of them and Jack to work on together. The collabs were fine: they got a few hours of fun while also being able to check up on Jack, and all of their audiences enjoyed them for the most part. After a week, when Felix had finally convinced Mark that Jack was feeling better, Mark laid off on the constant check-ups. He still talked to Jack occasionally, but they were mostly on their usual schedule when it came to talking to each other by two weeks after the Skype call.

He hopes Jack is okay.

No, screw that. Jack _has_ to be okay. Even after all these weeks, after convincing himself Jack is fine then convincing himself he isn’t, after he’s slowly seen Jack’s character build itself back up, he still isn’t sure if everything he gets from the Irish man is the truth. And what’s worse is that he doesn’t know what could be going on if it’s all lies, and the thought that Jack has been lying to him hurts more than he’d like to admit. But he had better be okay, because Mark can’t imagine his life without knowing Jack now, it pains him to imagine any of his friends gone, and to think that he could wake up one day and there’d be no texts from him, to think there’d never be another video posted on his channel, to think that he’d never see him again - never have him in the room, there and _real_ \- made him feel the same way he felt when he walked in to see that Skype call minimised. Panicked, and alone, and useless to help - because what Jack said really was true. Mark could do fuck all even if Jack took his own life while talking to him, apart from try to talk him down, or call the police, but they’d get there too late and then...

He wouldn’t do that, would he?

Mark continues scrolling, noticing the way each video got shorter than the previous as he got to Jack’s most recent, and he wonders if Jack had noticed it, too.

Jack wouldn’t do anything, of course he wouldn’t. Jack’s never said anything like that before, and he hasn’t since, so it was just a slip of the tongue, right?

Mark begs for himself to be right.


	13. Chapter 13

When Jack finally claws himself into wakefulness, he’s gasping for air. His palms hurt from how hard he’s clenched his hands into fists. There are red cresent shapes pressed into them where his nails have dug into the skin. He sees shadows in the corner of his room, sees one of them move, and he can still feel the man’s strong grip on his jaw and pressed against his hip, and every time he blinks he sees that same bloody red that took over everything. Then he puts a hand to his throat, and he knows that he isn’t choking, and nobody else is there, but he’s sitting upright in bed with bloody hands and cold tears on his cheeks.

He breathes.

The blood wasn’t hard to wash off, especially considering his nails only broke through the skin of his palm in two or three places. He was kind of impressed; he didn’t know he had that kind of strength in his hands, much less when he was asleep.

While rinsing off he had to roll up his sleeves so he wouldn’t get them damp. As stupid as it sounds, he’s been trying his best to avoid looking at his arms at all costs - too much temptation. It was ridiculous. But even so, when he caught sight of the bare skin that covered his forearm, his immediate thought was how much he’d like to see that skin covered in crimson.

Jack sighed, leaning against his sink. _It wouldn’t be that bad_ he reasoned _you’ve been doing great, you can hide these ones too._

It’s getting colder in this suffocating prison of his, which means covering up, which means long sleeves.

But one wrong turn and they see them, one slip of his hands and he’s gone.

_Nobody fucking cares about you anyway, you’d be better off dead_

No. He won’t do that, not yet. He’ll go to PAX, he’ll see the fans, he’ll see his friends...he’ll make it to PAX, at least that far. He has to.

But for now...

The thought was so tempting, like he’d be treating himself, and maybe he would be. Maybe it won’t become a problem, it will just be a one time thing, or an occasional delicacy he could indulge in. Maybe he’ll try it this one time, and it’ll be too much for him. He can believe that; only he would be stupid enough to enjoy covering his legs with marks, then wimp out when it gets more intense. _Just fucking do it, pussy_

Maybe he’ll do it this one time. He’ll go into his room, pick up the jeans still lying in a heap on his floor, take out the X-ACTO knife and...

Just this one time, then he’ll let them heal and that will be that.

Jack’s phone begins to ring. The tone is so loud in the quiet of his apartment that it makes him jump.

He follows the sound to his bedroom, then searches for it’s source. He checks on his desk, knocks around the pile of half-empty water bottles on his bedside table. No luck. Then he takes a step back, listens to the consistent ringtone echoing throughout the room. His eyes lock onto his bed.

Jack shakes out his sheets, all shucked off the corners of his bed and curled into a slept-in ball. His phone hits the floor with a thud.

“Aha, Gotcha!” Jack celebrates to the empty room

He picks up his phone, still persistent in its ringing, and sees that it’s Mark. Jack answers without a second thought. _Maybe it is getting better_ Jack thinks as Mark starts talking.

“Hey, how’re you going?” It might just be Jack, but it doesn’t sound like there is as much of a smile in Mark’s voice as usual.

“Hey, I’m good” which was closer to a lie than Jack was entirely comfortable with “what about you?”

“I was just wondering...” Mark dismissed Jack’s question, and there was a weirdly large gap before he talked again “...are you all ready for PAX?” and Jack could tell that wasn’t what Mark was initially going to ask him

“Uh...yeah?” Jack’s eyebrows knotted together “I finished packing a couple days ago” Jack scans his room, eyeing the packed suitcase near the corner, between a pile of clothes and paper rubbish

Mark spoke up again “Good! That’s-that’s good...so you’re okay?”

Jack’s heart missed a beat. He was sure that he had been keeping up his facade, surely he hadn’t gone so wrong again without noticing. Even so, he suddenly felt like a hundred eyes were watching him, and they all saw him, living like this.

“Yeah..?” Jack fumbled while turning the call on to speaker phone “I’m fine, why?” he figured as long as he didn’t sound suspicious he was all good.

Mark got defensive really quickly “No reason, it’s just- it’s just we haven’t talked in a while. Not one-on-one at least, I just wanted to know how you are” Jack picked plastic bottles up from his bedroom floor to the sound of Mark stuttering. He looked around for a garbage bag.

“Anyway...” Mark almost sounded back to normal “if everything’s good, I guess I should go-”

“No!” Jack isn’t sure what took over him, as just a few minutes ago he wouldn’t have volunteered to talk to anyone, instead giving in to the familiar company of a blade against his skin.

Mark was silent for a moment, and Jack’s stomach dropped as he considered the possibility that he had just given himself up, but then

“Okay, I’ll stay” and the smile in his voice is so catching that Jack can’t keep a matching one off of his face

Jack finds a screwed up plastic bag on his desk that he begins to drop the bottles into

“How are you?” he asks Mark, and Mark - cheerfulness still infecting his voice - chatted away about this and that, and occasionally Jack would laugh, or give back short responses to some of the stories Mark was telling him. It was nice. With Mark on speaker phone Jack could almost imagine the man was in the room with him, if it weren’t for the crackling warp his phone applied to the other man’s voice. In all honesty, he’s thankful for that, because hearing someone else’s voice while standing in the middle of his room’s mess already felt too intrusive - like they could somehow see through the phone and judge him - and if it weren’t for the slight distortion in Mark’s voice, Jack’s sure he’d have to leave the room in favour for somewhere less affected by his laziness.

Jack throws the full bag of rubbish - tied at the top - by his door to be taken out later _like that’s gonna happen_ , and begins picking up his discarded clothes from the past few days from around the room. He was so focused on cleaning up the place for the first time in weeks that he didn’t realise Mark asked him a question until his voice breaks through Jack’s trance

“Jack? You there?”

Jack’s head snaps up “Uh- yeah, yeah! I’m here”

He hears a small chuckle come from the phone “Did you hear what I said?”

Jack can feel the blush on his cheeks “No, sorry” he apologised, picking up a T-shirt as he did so, “what’d you say?” he sniffs under the shirt’s arms, testing if it has been worn and re-coils at the smell

“I said we’re staying at the same hotel during PAX” Mark’s grin was obvious, even through the speaker and the crackle and the distortion “isn’t that cool? We can get up to manly hijinks!” Mark puts on a voice

Jack feels the blush spread to his ears, for a different reason this time, then remembers to laugh

“Yeah, that’ll be awesome” he makes sure to keep the smile in his voice, just in case Mark can hear it in his voice just as much as he can hear it in Mark’s

Jack reaches the bottom of a pile of clothes, and as he’s folding a pair of jeans he feels a lump in the pocket.

The urge is back.

Mark’s voice becomes a mumble in the back of his consciousness, but Jack can only feel so much guilt for it while he holds the X-ACTO knife in his hand. Unopened, still. He had managed to keep himself content enough with what he had to manage that, as ridiculous as it seems to him to even try when the voice in his head is so convincing when it says nobody cares about him, and he should be dead, or at the very least, he...

_...might as well cut_

Right on time. At least that’s one constant of his life that isn’t mind-numbingly dull. Almost subconsciously, Jack begins rubbing his wrist, tracing his fingertips over all of the flesh he so desperately wanted to rip into. It was far gorier in his mind than in actuality - he had to keep reminding himself of that - because he could only take so much pain

_Pussy-_

and he could only dig so deep before...well, he wouldn’t be digging anymore.

Jack vaguely processes Mark say something that mentioned him

“Huh?” Jack asked, eyes still glued to the sealed packaging

Mark stops mid-sentence “O-oh, nothing, I was just rambling” Mark stuttered out “like, maybe if you were staying a little longer in LA we could hang out for a while longer? But then I realised you didn’t even say how long you were staying, and you’ve probably got things to do or a plane ticket back to Ireland already, and...” Mark trailed off

“Yeah” Jack wasn’t sure what he was saying ‘yes’ to, since Mark’s words had barely been processed in his mind before he answered, but Mark seemed to take it as a ‘yes, I have a plane ticket back already’, which was a lie, and prevented him from spending more time with Mark, but would save him however long he’d have to hold off cutting while he was there. He hated the idea of sneaking around like he used to, always on edge, knowing anyone could catch him out at any time.

It’s been two days.

It’s a pitiful amount, and he’s rounding up, but that’s how long he’s made it without cutting. He reminds himself again that keeping track is idiotic considering he’s not even planning on giving his habit up, but there’s a part of him that likes having the achievement. Like, his sister, and his therapist, and - hell - any of his friends if they ever found out could say that he has a problem, and that he should stop now before he can’t bring himself to give it up, but having this number - these days when, even when he’s been yearning for it, Jack hasn’t touched a blade - helped him believe that yes, he could stop. He could stop whenever he wanted, he could stop _now._ And nobody can take that away from him.

He’d really prefer a higher number, just so that he could prove anyone who wanted to test his self-restraint wrong. But, hey, the better half of a decade aint bad, right? If he can make it that many years, there’s no doubt in Jack’s mind he could do it again, and there’s no doubt in his mind that, if anyone actually showed concern, he could use it to prove it to them, too.

“I really can’t wait to see you” Mark’s voice came back into Jack’s head, and Jack can’t quite tell how long he was stuck in his own thoughts

“I can’t wait either” A lie “I really want to see you” Not a lie, exactly. Jack doesn’t really want to see anyone, doesn’t want to chance anyone seeing the breaks in his facade that he can edit out in his videos. But he also _really_ wants to see someone, to talk to someone - not about you-know-what, but just...anything else but that. He wants to see Mark, he does, he just needs to get past his want to curl up and never be seen again first.

Jack’s head filled with images of PAX, of Mark, of Bob and Wade, and of his fans. It filled with his thoughts of the knives in his kitchen, of the one in his hand, he thought of how if you had told him last year that this is what he would have become that...that he would have never let himself get this way

_Fucking pathetic_

Yes. Because he’s reached a new low, where he’s disappointing himself, and feeling guilt for doing something he so desperately craves that he can scarcely think of anything else anymore.

His phone lay on his bed, his closest friend right there - if only his voice, and Jack knows that he can’t let him know about this. Ever.

He can’t let anyone know what he’s been doing to himself, as much as he can convince himself that everything’s fine and that he could stop whenever he wanted-

_You aren’t going to stop, you fucking idiot_

No, he’s not. He’s not going to stop, and even if he did...

He’d never forget the sweet pinch of a blade against his skin. He never did. Even as he pressed that cool steel against his thigh roughly two days ago - his most recent; a vertical row of six swipes, just now scabbing and turning itchy - he could remember the way it felt when he first tried it. Not even thinking of the future, not thinking how it would affect him in the long run, or how one cut could turn to ten, and that could turn to fifty, and that could turn to his sister walking into his room uninvited, and seeing the broken, bloody razor head he was dragging over his leg.

And now look at him.

_You ruined your own life, dipshit_ he could almost laugh at the cruelty of it all

Look at the way he lives; in a constant mess. Look at his YouTube channel, once thriving and now balancing on the edge of failing while he depends on his friends’ invites to collaborate, or his ‘reading your comments’ videos. Look at the way he limps when he digs a little too deep, when he slips up and curses himself for the fourth time that day.

Look at the things he thinks, the things he imagines. Look at the the desperate clawing of his fingernail into his wrist as he wracks his brain for something witty to say to the one person he wishes desperately he could tell all of this to, and the one he hopes will never find out.

Look at the dreams he’s having. Look at the way he wakes, full of terror, or gut clenching in disgust, or wet-eyed confusion as he lies in bed, processing the way his subconscious fabricated himself being handled.

“Mark?” Jack asked, before he had decided what to say next

Mark makes a noise on the other end, a sort of ‘mmhm?’ that urges Jack to continue. And it’s such a small thing, but it makes a part of Jack want to tell him everything - to start talking and not stop until everything is out, even if Mark can’t offer a response back, even if it disgusts him and he doesn’t talk to Jack for weeks. He knew if he just got the first bit out, if he just said the hard part...the rest would come easily...

He could tell him. He _could..._

But even as Jack thought it, he knew it was just a ruse he set upon himself, the same way he _could_ stop cutting, or _could_ get better, if he wanted to. It just wasn’t going to happen.

“Mark...” he whispers, and he knows Mark couldn’t have heard him

He runs a finger around the plastic covering, tracing the shape of the knife under his finger tips

“...have you ever had any weird dreams?”


	14. Chapter 14

So, here they are again.  
With the screaming, and the bleeding, and the tugging at his throat. A whisper in his ear, fingertips on his chest, ready to prise and scrape their way through his skin. The setting changes, he drifts away, there is a hand on his cheek.  
A slip of the arm cradling him, a cease to his movement, and then he’ll make his break for it. He’ll slip away from the smoke swirling through his senses. Is somebody smoking? Or is it just an incessant fog, set on following him until his lungs finally collapse?

The ragged breathe in and breathe out of his lungs is taken when large hands find his thighs.

A thrust.

And then Jack found that he could not breathe at all.

He pushes, but finds his arms far too weak. He kicks, but finds his legs move far too slowly. He opens his mouth, first to scream, to yell at the figure to get off, he’s bleeding, something’s wrong and he can’t breathe. _Can’t you see the smoke?_ he would scream. He opens his mouth to bring in even just a single intake of oxygen, but still feels his chest fighting against the movement.

Thrust.

The walls are gone, and it’s getting darker, although that may be the cloud forming around his head. The smoke stings his eyes and creeps in through his nose. It takes advantage of his open mouth and dives, like it’s alive, leaking in past his lips and dripping as thick as oil down to his chest. He feels its weight heavy inside of him.

Thrust.

A warm familiarity of skin-against-skin, and the sight of gore slinking down his arms. It’s almost too much to handle.

Thrust.

Clotted black grease staining his organs, and salt on his tongue. His vision is blurry, his chest is tight, his stomach feels sick.

Thrust.

Muscled arms and a deep voice, noises against his neck.

Thrust.

The last of the smoke seeps in down his gullet, and he swallows it up, his mouth slick with oil. He gags, and coughs up black, spewing liquid onto the tan collar bone above him. His lips are connected to the figure by a sticky string of grease; their hips connected by the man’s adamance.

Thrust.

Bloody arms and melting walls, and his head filled with smog.

Thrust.

Strong shoulders, and sweaty palms pressing against his chest.

Thrust.

Oil begins to boil, he feels it in the bubbles popping in his stomach, in the warmth in his gut.

Thrust.

Ragged breaths and jagged teeth on his neck.

Thrust.

A groan, and then Jack is in his room, alone. His eyes pinched shut as he ruts against his covers, desperate for friction.

The disgust sets in after it’s over. When he lays in the wet, seeping into his mattress as he replays the scene in his mind. He can still feel the man: all broad shoulders and well-built torso. He can imagine the feeling; can feel the oil slick on his skin, can feel the man’s cum dripping down the insides of his thighs. He can smell it.

Then it’s just him, and he’s still panting into his sheets that he finally has an excuse to wash.

 

\----------

 

Jack couldn’t bring himself to record anything that day. He figured he had a good enough excuse: he was sick.

Not in the traditional sense, although he did find himself holding back his lurching stomach while he threw his sheets in the washing machine.

Who the fuck can get off to _that?_ He asked himself, expecting no valid answer back. Some dreams are just like that, he supposed. Perhaps it was perfectly normal for him to get turned on by the thought of his own cut and bloodied arms, while choking and drowning in a flood of smoke and oil, running out of breath, out of _life._

The whole ‘fucked-by-a-guy’ thing didn’t get to him so much. Jack had never considered himself gay, per se. He hadn’t really put much thought into it, he just knew he liked girls. There were times, mostly during his teenage years, when he would see a guy he wouldn’t avoid calling ‘attractive’. But that kind of talk will get you beaten to pieces in a lot of high schools, so he decided not to put too much thought into it. When he was called a fag, or disgusting, or anything close to that, it made him think a little more. If others thought he was gay, was he just ignoring it himself? Was he so far in the closet that he wasn’t even admitting his feelings to himself?

That’s about when the dreams started. They weren’t as fucked up as this latest one, mind you. They weren’t anything putrid or wrong, and he can admit that more easily now that he’s made it out of his teenage years, but at the time they confused him, and he tried his best to ignore those questionable mental images that stood out in his usual hormone-crazed teenage boy’s thoughts.

It got easier when he graduated high school, everything did. And when he saw a guy he found cute, he didn’t freak out, he just let it be.

Jack wouldn’t mind being with a man, if he’s honest. And he doesn’t know why he’s felt the need to block that out so much from other people. His classmates he understands, his fans, sure. They can go crazy just thinking about this stuff. But people like Felix, and Bob, and Wade, and Mark. They wouldn’t judge him if he felt the need to actually act on any of these thoughts. If he got a boyfriend, they wouldn’t beat him to pieces like his bullies would. And anyway, there’s a whole lot more they could be judging him on now apart from the possibility of him being...curious.

So, to conclude, having dreams about men is okay, having dreams about men which feature Jack’s body collapsing in on itself as he struggles to breathe is _not okay._

He figured he’d dream about cuts again. It’s become common-place for him now, even his semi-consciousness longs to slice through his skin that is not yet scarred with months’ worth of contact with blades.

_Fuck me._

He needed a way to get his mind off of everything. What’s the fucking point of putting it off any longer? Maybe if he gives himself this then everything would stop, and he wouldn’t have those awful dreams any longer.

It was almost like his body ran on auto-pilot. He found himself walking into his bedroom, unthinking, and picking up the unopened knife he’d so conveniently left on his desk. These past few days, sitting there, so, so tempting.

Jack made his way back to his bathroom: as much as his dreams like to imply he wants to see his house streaked with blood, that would be a bitch to clean.

He positions himself in front of the sink. He closes a fist around the X-ACTO, knuckles turning white.

One last look in the mirror, to check if he is sure.

He meets his own eyes in the reflection, and he takes in his unkempt hair and tired face, his exhaustion shown through the bruising red under his eyes. Anger flares up inside Jack at the very sight of his own reflection.

He watches himself rip off the plastic casing.

He holds the handle in his fingers, like a pencil, poised to carve words into his skin.

Deep breath in.

He closes his eyes and lets out his breath when he finally feels the sharp stinging on his arm. Finally, _finally_ he feels it. Ecstasy takes over. He pulls the blade across his skin, once, then twice, then a third, each digging deeper and deeper. Cut and cut and _cut_ and _cut_ and **_cut._** From the inside of his elbow to where he feels the thinness of his wrist to be.

When he opens his eyes, the porcelain of his bathroom sink is layered with blood. He was sure he didn’t cut deep enough to hit anything bad, but the sight and the amount of red dripping from his arm to the drain is enough to make his heart stop for a moment.

 

\----------

 

Jack stands under the showerhead, the water so scolding hot that it gave the illusion of cold, and the steam was so intense that it brought up the stench of copper from his arm.

He washes his skin free of blood, and oil, and cum, and the smell of smoke. He washes himself free of regret, and lets himself take in the refreshing feeling.

When he steps out of the shower, blood begins to bubble once again to the corners of his new cuts. He covers them with bandages from the medical kit he packed for PAX; he figured they’re more useful now than to save for later.

His sink basin is tinged pink from blood. He doesn’t care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, sorry for the hUGE wait. I've been catching up with school work, and haven't really found the energy to write anything for a while. Anyway, turns out that I, the most responsible author ever, obviously, think that 2 AM is a great time to write a chapter for the only story I've ever written that is actually working out well for me. I'll probably regret this when I wake up.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> literally this whole story has been filler to get to the PAX chapters. thank diggidy-dog we're finally here

Bleaching kits are surprisingly complex, man.

At least, they are if you have little to no experience with them and you kind of care about not frying all your hair off?

Jack’s bathroom filled with the strong smell of bleach, so intense that it made his eyes water, and he had to step outside of the room to gag. One open window and a few moments to compose himself later, and Jack managed to hold out enough to start reading the box’s instructions.

“Pour two times developer into the mixture and shake until combined...”

Jack looked at the assorted bottles and creams in his gloved hands - none of them labeled quite as simply as the directions would have you believe. After skimming through the words a second time, he decided to just mix everything together and hope that he won’t fry his hair off.

“Here goes nothin’” he mumbled as he squirted some of the mixture into his hair.

He chose to ignore the stinging - he knew at least that much was normal. He’d see what happened, and pull the plug if chunks of hair started falling out of his head.

The waiting time gave him an opportunity to check his phone, which he had been neglecting to do far too often these days. Just one glance and he saw the countless YouTube, Twitter and tumblr notifications, and a few texts he missed from his friends. They would be kind - probably just asking how he’s going and if he’s ready to go to PAX, when his plane lands, stuff like that. And he didn’t even care enough to check earlier.

Without realising it, Jack dug his nails into his arm. The sharp stinging had become familiar to him as he developed the habit, but putting pressure on his new cuts turned the subconscious action a growling pain that he hadn’t anticipated. Jack winced.

After his previous escapade vis-à-vis his razor, he decided to cover the cuts haphazardly; wrapping the bandages from his packed bag tightly around his left arm to stop the bleeding, and waited to wash the blood off when rinsing his hair free of bleach - two birds with one stone, you know?

The ones from the previous night had already dried and scabbed up. It probably helped that the bandage was so tight he couldn’t dig in his nails and reopen them without meaning to.

His attention lingered on the wrapped cloth, irritated from getting slept on, and faded brown in places from seeping in blood. Hypnotic.

He’s got, what, twenty minutes to spare?

Excitement setting in, Jack opened his bathroom drawer and reached for his blade.

  
\-----

  
While rinsing his arm off in the shower, Jack couldn’t help but be worried at how much damage he did this time. Three horizontal lines down his right arm, reaching from his inner elbow to the very edge where his wrist met the palm of his hand, and they’re all thick and red.

“Fucking idiot”

Jack hissed at himself, and almost unconsciously - his instincts now used to hurting himself whenever he got frustrated - he pressed down hard on the fresh cuts. His thumb became slick with blood.

Instead of his usual precision, the cuts were crooked and ripped at the edges as an aftereffect of using his non-dominant hand. They stung when he washed them, and the delicate scabbing that had formed over them tore away too easily as he scrubbed the dried blood away.

Diluted peroxide dripped down from Jack’s hair, the milky-coloured water trailed down his arms and washed into the fresh cuts.

Jack yelped, and held back tears as he waited with his arms under the showerhead for the stinging to wash away.

Jack couldn’t help but break into a crooked smile, finding it funny - ironic even - that there he was, standing in his shower, dripping red into the puddle under his feet, and all he wanted was for the pain to stop.

\-----

He really should have bought more bandages if he was planning on doing this again.

_Of course you were, dickhead_

Reusing the bandage will do for now, even with the way it struggled to cover his whole arm, but that left his still-healing cuts from last night uncovered and vulnerable.

He had been using strategically stacked bracelets and armbands to cover the majority of the cuts that weren’t covered by his sleeves while filming, but with this sort of damage, just those wouldn’t do anymore.

He just has to pick out a long-sleeved shirt to wear on the plane.

“ _Hm_ ” Jack actually found it _funny_ , how familiar this felt.

He finds it interesting when he looks back to when he used to do this, all the way back to his teen years. Because he sees how he’s matured, he sees how his problems have changed, but he’s still fallen back into the same coping mechanism.

He never used to do it to die, he was very adamant about that. He wanted to live, he just needed something to dull the pain while he did so. And when he started again, he was sure he had struck the same deal. He just needed something to help when his mind got too much, not something to finish him off forever, but as time has gone on he isn’t entirely sure if that’s true anymore.

Still, he can’t quit now, not when he has to get on a plane in a few hours, and he still has to put green dye in his hair, and shave, and find his passport.

Then he’ll be flying, then in America with his friends, and finally at PAX.

And he’ll have _fun_ , and maybe that will get him back to normal. Maybe it’ll re-flick that switch and he’ll never have to worry about this again. But there’s a part of him that thinks that won’t happen. There’s a part of him that thinks he’ll go to PAX, stand on stage in front of thousands of people that for some reason have decided to go out of their way to see him in person, he’ll see his friends, look Bob and Wade and Mark in their eyes, see Felix and Marzia...and it won’t make a damn difference. He’ll still end up back here eventually. He’ll step back on his plane and come back to Ireland, he’ll be alone again, living his same life with nothing to look forward to...nothing to wait around for.

And he’ll have a reason. He could justify it then, even if it doesn’t make total sense to everyone, they’d understand enough to accept it, to move on with their lives after he’s gone.

A part of him wants that.

\-----

Jack posted a selfie at the airport: ‘on my way to PAX!’ with a huge smile on his face that he prayed wasn’t too obviously faked.

It really felt too normal considering everything that was weighing on him, the secrets he was keeping, and how he was silently wishing he didn’t run into anyone who recognised him. It wasn’t hectic like he imagined - well, no more than the usual airport rush. Instead, he arrived on time, collected his bag, boarded the plane, and tried to settle in to the idea that soon he’d have to talk to the people he trusts most like nothing is wrong. Truth be told, he couldn’t tell anymore whether or not he thought what he was doing was bad. Every time he thinks he’s made a mistake, and maybe he could use some help, he shuts himself up and reminds himself of the sweet euphoria he gets from cutting. Then, as he is lying in bed that night, staring at his ceiling, feeling an odd, panic-inducing kind of guilt, he wonders again if he‘s really fucked up this time.

_Well_ , he thinks, less resentful than usual, _I’ve got 10 hours to figure it out_

He remembered the texts on his phone that he still hadn’t brought himself to check. The thought of talking to any one of his contacts made his stomach twist - a perverted mix of excitement, longing, loneliness, and a nervousness that he’d never had t associate with his friends before.

It’s not like any of it matters, really, not if he really was planning on doing the unthinkable (or, rather, the unadmittable, because the thought had remained in his head for a long, long time - as he dug his blade into his flesh, taunting himself, telling himself to dig a little deeper; at night as he tried to get to sleep, his dreams overtaken by corrupt fantasies; the first thought in his head when he wakes up, the morning haze making him wish he never had to wake up again), and besides, it’s not like he could talk to anyone about it anyway. Unless he somehow let it slip - the mere thought of that sends a chill up his spine - he can’t ever admit to what he’s been doing. That’s what he knowingly agreed to when he started this again; he could never tell anyone, not if he wanted to keep any kind of free will, or wanted his friends to be able to look at him without pity in their eyes.

That couldn't happen. Not on his watch.

So, really, he’s got two options, right? One’s to live his entire life keeping a secret he could never tell anyone without compromising his independence, and the other is...well, he knew what the other option was.

Jack settled into his seat as the plane began to move forward, turning his gaze from the window - he fucking hated heights.

10 hours. Any problem can be solved in 10 hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. I know, I hate me too.  
> I would say the next chapter will be up faster, but it will probably be late too because of who I am as a person, AKA a disappointment.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [KINDA IMPORTANT. THANKS.]
> 
> This chapter contains somewhat graphic descriptions of techniques to commit suicide. At least, there's a list of methods that could be triggering for people.
> 
> I don't want this or any other work I publish to be used as inspiration for someone's self-harm or suicide. Please, if you are going through anything close to what is depicted in this story, consult a medical professional or seek help from a friend, parent, counselor, or hotline.
> 
> Stay safe.

“Don’t freak out,” Sean said, shaking. He held his hand up - a pleading ‘stop’ that was somewhat nulled by the dripping blood staining his fingertips.

“Don’t freak-...Do you have any idea what the _fuck_ you’re doing, Sean?!”

His sister’s voice was usually pleasant - melodic, even. She had been praised for bringing the sweetest voice to their school choir before she got ‘too cool’ for it - her words. But, fuck, it was _loud_.

“Please don’t-” Jack swallowed, eyeing his shared bedroom’s door, “Please keep your voice down...”

She just stood there in the doorway for a minute, arms crossed, eyes glaring at him. What scared him most was that she wasn’t even looking at the blade, or the blood, or the four cuts on his thigh that he _desperately_ needed to clean up before anyone else came barging into his room without knocking. She was looking at him. She stared into his eyes, unrelenting, even when he fell silent and took to staring at the ink stain under his brother’s desk.

For the first time, Sean felt real guilt doing what he was doing, and a small part of Sean snapped out of place. Something that he would never be able to name; something that made him so ashamed, so scared, that it would give him the strength to avoid his addiction for years. Not forget about it - he never, ever forgot. But he managed. With rubber bands around his wrists, and punches self-inflicted on his thighs where his scars eventually grew thin and faded, he managed.

But back then, when he sat on his childhood bed - nothing more than a mattress shoved in the corner of the room for the youngest - and his sister glared pain, misery, and a fraction of Satan’s soul into him, Sean could do nothing more than break down crying.

 

\-----

 

There’s an undeniable selfishness that comes with any sentence that begins with, ‘I love my family, but...’

Jack thinks that a little part of him dies everytime he tries to justify himself thinking it. Maybe he _was_ selfish at this point. Maybe that’s just who he is - he’s been keeping this to himself for long enough; he’s thought about being _selfish_ enough times that it’s hard to deny by now.

_I love my family..._

He once read an open letter, signed ‘anonymous’, aimed towards people who struggle with suicidal ideation. It said to look past the self-hatred, and try to imagine your mother, or father, or siblings as they lowered your casket. Try to imagine the person’s face - even if it’s just a stranger - when they found your body.

Jack could hardly bring himself to do it for the first couple of hours. Every time he tried to, he could scarcely manage a flash of his mother crying before he opted out and tried to focus on whatever Pixar movie they had playing for the in-flight movie. He would sigh, relax back into his seat, try to escape into the colourful images on-screen...but he still could not get his mind off of it.

It felt like a challenge.

Well, maybe not so much a _challenge_ \- that makes it seem like it was something Jack wanted to do, or something he could win. It was more of a test; a trial run. He figured, if he was going to do something so selfish, he had to face the consequences, and he had to know what he would cause if he went through with it.

Still, he just kept thinking back to that one, solid memory of his sister, and the way her expression turned from shock, to confusion, sadness, and then to anger - to _disappointment_.

Jack wondered how disappointed she would be once she got the call. Would she blame herself for never telling anyone? He didn’t want that. He was so thankful that she kept her mouth shut all these years, otherwise who knows where he could be now?

Would he still have amazing friends and a great career? No way.

His own apartment, big enough that he isn’t crammed into a single corner? I don’t think so.

...

Would he still want to die?

Jack stared at the seat in front of him, and willed himself to stop thinking.

 

\-----

 

By halfway through the flight, when a lot of the passengers in the seats surrounding him had drifted off to sleep, Jack had decided he had two options:

1\. He does it. He goes to PAX, because not showing up would be _extra_ selfish and he didn’t need that on his conscience, plus he didn’t want this plane ride to be for nothing. Jack does not take heights lightly.

Speaking of, Jack figured if this was it, he should probably figure out how he was going to kick the bucket, since he already knew at least one method that he could never go through with even if he tried.

That required it’s own mental list of sorts. One that was partly built on his own knowledge of the subject, and otherwise constructed through quick, hidden Google searches on his phone that he covered with his hand, just in case the couple sleeping behind him stirred.

 

a. Hanging: Jack knew the basics - how could you not? However, his searches left him with one definitive truth - hanging is fucking painful.

He didn’t know why he hadn’t figured that before. He guessed it’s because he’d never actively searched for methods before. He’d just figured when the time came - _if_ the time came...that he would bleed out in the shower, like you’d assume every cutter to do.

b. Cutting arteries: also painful, but familiar. Jack felt like, of all the options he thought of, this was the one he felt most...at home with. He knew what he was doing, far more than he did any of the other methods, and as long as he did it right he would be unlikely to screw it up or to be found before his heart stops.

c. Pills: a lot of them, it seemed. It was kind of hilarious, in his half-drowsy state, how little he knew about this thing he felt like his whole life had been leading up to. A lot of the overdoses Jack knew of were to things like cocaine and heroin. No way was he doing that shit, especially not just for someone to find him and assume he had a habit that eventually got the better of him. Enough people accused him of being high on something to be so energetic anyway.

 

He hadn’t felt energetic in so long. It was like every bit of energy, and motivation, and _life_ had been sucked out of him.

_Wonder how that’ll hold up in a suicide note._

Will anyone be able to understand? It’s not like he had talked about this to anyone, especially in the past few years.

Of course, there was always his second option:

2\. Tell someone what he has been doing

Or, at least, what he has been feeling. Jack thinks if he told any one of the people he’d be seeing in a few hours just what has been going through his head, they’d be willing enough to support him already, without any need to show them his arms, or his thighs, or his fingertips that he had pricked with scissors - looking at them now, they were subtle enough that no one could tell.

If they saw what he’d been doing, they would get serious, and Jack could not handle that.

That being said, it’s not the outcome he’s afraid of - he’s sure his friends, and the therapists and the hospital staff would promise he’d be okay:

_‘We’ll get you better, Jack’_

_‘You’ll be okay, Jack’_

_‘We’re here for you, Jack’_

And the voices would never stop. Never would he feel independent again, without the constant gnawing at the back of his head that he's being monitored and looked after.

He isn’t afraid of _getting better_ , he is afraid of what it would take to get there. He doesn’t know if he could take another dozen years with that ugly urge in the back of his mind. He doesn’t want to risk anyone finding out - he can imagine it now, all the ‘get well soon’s from fans and the 24/7 phone calls from his mother.

It just...

It makes sense, _right?_ It _is_ justified. Maybe a little questionable, but that’s always the way with these things.

But, of all the possibilities his mind wrote for him, the strongest, darkest one of all was what would happen if nobody understood. If his note didn’t hold up, or if he did it spontaneously and there was no note at all. If, even if he spilled his innermost secrets onto paper, it still wasn’t enough to convince people of how much every day hurt. How it felt like he hadn’t thought straight for days; like he hadn’t slept in weeks; like he hadn’t felt satisfied - emotionally, physically, _consciously_ \- for months, and it was beginning to catch up to him all at once. His limbs physically ached; his eyes hurt to keep open; his mind was foggy and he couldn’t joke about it like he used to.

All he had was keeping people happy. All he had was making people laugh, and he’s lost that.

With his leg bouncing nervously, Jack opened the notes app on his phone. He began to write everything he was feeling, right down to the cheesy cliches and ‘woe is me’ descriptions. As he typed, his eyes became painfully red, tears stinging at the corners. He blinked them away.

_Can’t even handle writing your own suicide note..._

 

As he typed, Jack became very aware that leaving a traditional note was not an option. If he were to do it when he got back to his apartment, he wouldn’t be found immediately. In fact, there was a very real possibility that his body wouldn’t be found for weeks - not until it was hauled out of his shower by a complete stranger after his neighbors complained about the smell. Jack grimaced.

He would have to send it to someone - a suicide text, because that’s equal parts practical and hilarious to Jack in his current, half-tired state.

But who would he send it to? He has very few people he’s actually close to (at least, close enough to send his final goodbyes to, you know?), and something sick stirred in his stomach when he considered telling his family. He supposed, though, he’d have to send someone a copy - his mom or dad, or maybe even his sister - because if he just sent one to a friend it would create yet another layer of cruelty for them. He hated the idea of one of his friends delivering the news to his mom even more than he did imagining her face when she got the text.

As he typed, Jack realised his note had started to develop itself for one particular person - Mark. And, even though his thumbs slowed after he realised what he was doing, he supposed it made sense. After all, Mark was probably his closest friend. And he was kind, and forgiving, and Jack had already spilled enough secrets to the man. It made sense for him to want to say goodby to his friend who had accepted him so easily.

So, when he wrote his apologies, and when he stressed that catching on to his differences in behaviour could not have changed his decision - nothing and no one could have stopped him from doing this - he kept Mark in his mind. He imagined Mark’s face when his plane finally lands and he’s forced to socialise again; he imagined how they would joke tomorrow when he and the rest of the PAX gang meet up at Mark’s house to vlog; he imagined how Mark will encourage him when he gets nervous before stepping on stage; he imagined Mark’s face when he realises how weak Jack has become.

He imagined how Mark would react if he told him everything, cuts and all. He imagined what Mark would think as he scrolled through his note.

 

With that, he added his final goodbyes, his final apology and thanks for tolerating him. Then he signed it off and saved the note to his drafts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't and can't make some promise that I'll 'update this soon', because if the past few months have taught me anything, just having ideas doesn't guarantee I'll have the inspiration or energy to do anything.
> 
> Instead, I'll apologise, for... a lot of things. Though it still blows my mind that anyone has or will read (and enjoy) this fic of mine, I can't deny that it's happening. So, for anyone who had been waiting for me to up my game after all that build up, and for the many people I assume will be disappointed by this chapter, I'm sorry.
> 
> Also, I really hate my inability to keep to one perspective. I'm constantly switching from past to present tense, which is annoying enough to read while editing, so I can imagine how infuriating it would be to spot it when it's published. I know I'm doing it, I just tend to write in big chunks at a time, and those always divulge into present tense for some reason. Also, my grammar really sucks sometimes. I'm considering going through this whole fic once it's (finally) completed to fix up big errors and make it flow a little better. For now, I'm gonna plan my next chapter, and maybe take a nap. I'm sick with a cold and a migraine, so that's fun.
> 
> Again, if you are struggling with self-harm, suicidal tendencies, or mental health issues, I urge you to talk to someone about it. Please, don't give up.


End file.
